The Window in the Attic

I remember the attic inmy grandmother's house, where the winter light would catch the dust motes like tiny stars suspended in space. Up there, amid forgotten trunks and yellow letter, I discovered the rhythm of stories. Each object whispered a fragment of the past, a button froma coat my mother wore, a postcard from a cousin long gone.

That attic became my classroom for my imagination to run wild. I would sit for hours, letting words take its shape around these relics, turning small observations into tales of persevereance, love, and triumph. It was there I learned that even the smallest details, a creaking floorboard, the scent of pine, the way sunlight fell across a page could be transformed into something meaningful. That's what I wanted to do with words.

Writing, like that attic, is a space of discovery. We explore corners we never knew existed, turn ordinary moments into extraordinary insight, and give voice to the unseen.

In your own writing, consider the attics in your life, the overlooked spaces, the unnoticed moments. What stories live there? Sometimes, it is only by stepping into those hidden places that we find what truly matters.

By: Elena Marrow, Contributing Essayist