Spark

The attic is dark and dusty. The only light is from small pin pricks in the roofing felt, secrets lurk in the shadows.

The loft hatch is flung open, the ladder hooked, pulled down and extended, squeaking and creaking with each movement. He climbs the ladder up into the attic, each step making the ladder groan. His head pops up through the hatch, and his hand reaches to find the light switch. Click; the eery space now flooded with flickering florescent light.

He slowly makes his way fully into the loft, carefully manoeuvring himself onto the boarded floor. He glances around, and sees what needs to get to.

In the corner is a pile of old boxes, some labelled, some not. All a bit decrepit now, but the memories contained feel fresh. The marker pen on the side has stood the test of time - “Chris”.

That box had moved in with them, and made other journeys before that, but had never opened it. He shuffles it out over the floor. The original tape crumbles as he peels it off. He takes a deep breath, exhales, and opened the lid.

He rummages through it. This was his childhood and pre-uni memories, all condensed into one box – photos, trophies, medals, Scouts badges, certificates, his first drawings that his mum refused to throw out. He smiled. Some good memories in here. And then he got to the biscuit tin, and his smile disappeared. This is what he’d come to find.

He careful pulls the tin out. He surveys it in his hands. It’s not even dusty. He rests it on his knee and prises the lid off. This is everything he wanted to forget, but now can’t.

Her.

He wanted to forget her. He had tried, and thought he had moved on. He was happy now, he has a wife and family, friends, but still she is still there in the background. And everything in the tin was his last link to her. Their photos, letters, trinkets. Something he never wanted to lose.

He hears his wife come in the front door with the kids. He hurriedly puts the lid back on the tin, and puts it in the box. He shoves the box back to where it came from, back to being in the shadows.

‘What are you doing up here?’ He turns, his wife is looking at him from the loft hatch.

He didn’t hear her climb the ladder. Did she see? Too late now.

‘Ah, nothing. I thought I’d put something up here, but I can’t see it now.’

‘We bought lunch back with us.’

‘I’ll come now.’

She goes back down the ladder.

He gives the box a final shove back into the corner, walks back over to the hatch, navigates back onto the ladder, and goes down. He switches off the light. The attic flicks back to dark. The ladder collapsed and shoved back up into the attic. The hatch is shut.

All remaining light dies.