a third-person narrative
The attic was silent and the air around her hung suspended in time
Dim light filtered through the tiny window spotted with years of neglect.
Her fingertips left imprints in the thick dust layers on the lid of the trunk
Like fur-lined boots leave evidence of a presence in freshly fallen snow.
She hesitated, her green eyes wide, before slowly extending out her hand
Reaching into the shadows to retrieve the discarded moments of her past.
She trembled slightly as she carefully withdrew a polished wooden box
The latch had a brassy gold hue that matched the shade of her hair.
It swung open easily, as if it had been anticipating this encounter
Exposing stacks of paper it contained that had yellowed with passing time.
Her heart beat wildly, echoing off the warped planks of the small attic space
Holding in her hand evidence of the discarded moments of her past.
Through blurry eyes, she struggled to decipher the scribbled lines of ink
To connect those words to feelings that once soared right through her.
Her heart heaved as her knees sunk to greet the gritty floorboards below
Remembering the sound of his voice, the comical melody of his laughter.
The faint scent of cologne he wore drifted up from the wrinkled page
Instantly taking her back to relive the discarded moments of her past.
The light grew brighter as the sun slowly climbed directly above the roof
Time had elapsed and her tender nostalgia had transformed into reality.
She smiled to herself, despite the sorrow evident on her damp cheeks.
The trunk groaned closed in protest and she carefully dusted the lid.
Her thoughts gathered and head held high, swollen eyes so hopeful
She reminded herself why she had discarded the moments of her past.