My grandmother’s passing was a devastating blow. I had no parents, and she was the closest thing I had to family. When the lawyer called to inform me that she had left me her entire estate, I was overwhelmed with a mix of grief and disbelief. The house alone was worth a substantial amount, something I could only have dreamed of affording myself. It felt surreal, like a scene from a movie. I was ready to process the paperwork and try to move forward, but the lawyer stopped me as I was about to leave. “Miss,” he said, his voice grave, “there’s one more thing. Your grandmother left a letter for you as well.” He handed me a slightly yellowed envelope, my name scrawled across the front in her familiar handwriting. My hands trembled as I took it. It felt heavy with unspoken words, with the weight of secrets I couldn’t even begin to imagine. I thanked him, promising to read it later, and rushed out of the office, eager to have a moment alone with her final message to me.
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Back at my apartment, I carefully slit open the envelope and unfolded the letter. The words swam before my eyes. “Mary, if you’re reading this, I’m begging you: [“BURN EVERYTHING you find in the attic. Don’t look. Just burn it.”]” Her words were filled with a palpable sense of urgency, of fear. I reread the sentence several times, trying to decipher its meaning. What could be so dangerous, so terrible, that she would implore me to destroy it without even a glance? My mind raced, conjuring up images of hidden treasures, incriminating documents, or something far more sinister.
The next day, I found myself standing in front of my grandmother’s house. It was a beautiful, old Victorian, filled with memories, both happy and sad. But now, a sense of unease hung in the air, a feeling that something was deeply wrong. My eyes kept drifting upwards, towards the attic window, a dark and mysterious space shrouded in shadow. I knew I shouldn’t, that I should respect my grandmother’s wishes and simply burn everything. But the **seed of curiosity had been planted**, and it was growing rapidly.
Against my better judgment, I decided to venture into the attic. I told myself that I just needed a quick peek, just enough to satisfy my curiosity. I promised myself that I wouldn’t touch anything, wouldn’t look too closely. I found the attic door hidden behind a bookcase in the living room. It was locked, but the key was easily found inside of the bookcase. My heart pounded as I climbed the narrow, creaking stairs, each step bringing me closer to the unknown.
The attic was dusty and filled with cobwebs. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and forgotten memories. Boxes were stacked haphazardly, overflowing with photographs, letters, and various trinkets. I started sifting through them, trying to keep my promise to myself to not look too closely. But it was impossible. Each item seemed to whisper a story, beckoning me to uncover its secrets. In a pile of old photos, I stumbled upon something that would change my life forever.
Two days from that moment I would be holding my own obituary. A picture in an old box held the key to the **complete undoing of my life**. How could my grandmother do this to me? The worst part is, I can’t even share the truth of what happened up there because it would cause more problems than it would solve. [“My life is now a complete waste.”]
