The attic was colder now.
Not by temperature—by presence. It felt like the moment I spotted those boxes, something had retreated. Not the intruder, no. Something else. Like the space itself had closed around its secret and dared me to open it.
The boxes were stacked with awkward symmetry. Three rows, four columns, taped together with labels scratched off or smeared with age. Nothing on the outside screamed significance—until I opened the first one.
Polaroids.
Not digital prints, not files. Instant film. Dozens of them, tucked neatly in little sleeves, dated in red marker. Each one stamped in the corner with a time I couldn't ignore.
I pulled the first from the front.
Jacob. Asleep. On his side. One arm hanging off the bed.
Lea. In the background. In her pajamas. Mouth open slightly in a child's careless dream.
The date? A week ago.
The second one?
Same angle. Slightly closer. Jacob's mouth was open this time.
The third?
