The Diary In The Attic (Part 1)

[Timl1980]

Part 1: The Dust and the Key

 

Some discoveries feel less like accidents and more like invitations.

 

Anna Fischer was seventeen, but her body felt decades older. The treatments had left her pale, thin, and easily winded. Even climbing the narrow stairs to the attic made her chest ache. Her mother had told her to rest, but Anna had insisted on helping. She hated feeling useless.

 

From below, her mother’s voice floated up: “Anna, don’t overdo it. And don’t get lost in your daydreams again. Just finish sweeping like I asked you to, sort out a few boxes and come back downstairs."

 

Anna smiled faintly. Daydreaming...that was her mother’s gentle way of saying she drifted too much, that her imagination carried her away. But Anna needed those escapes. They were her refuge when the hospital walls closed in, when the pain was too sharp, when the future felt too short.

 

The attic smelled of cedar and dust. A single bulb flickered overhead, its glow barely pushing back the shadows. Boxes leaned against one another like tired old men. A rocking chair sagged in the corner, its seat caved in, as though it too had given up.

 

Anna set down the broom and dustpan then crouched beside a small trunk tucked into the shadows. Its wood was dark, its brass fittings dulled with age. She brushed away the dust and froze. The initials carved into the lid were the same as hers: A.F.

 

Her heart gave a little jump.

 

Above the trunk, a small brass key hung from a nail, as though waiting for her. She reached up, took it down, and slid it into the lock. It turned with a soft click.

 

Inside, wrapped in faded linen, was a leather‑bound diary. The cover was cracked, the edges frayed, but the word Diary was still faintly visible in gold.

 

Anna sat cross‑legged on the attic floor, the diary heavy in her lap. For a moment she hesitated. She knew she should probably take it downstairs, show her parents. But something in her resisted. This felt personal, like it was meant for her.

 

She opened the cover.

 

March 3, 1905 Dearest Diary,

 

Tonight we gathered again in the schoolhouse. Brother Russell’s words were read aloud, and though the world outside seems calm, we feel the stirrings of something greater. The Gentile Times draw near their close. We are but a small flock, yet we are certain Jehovah’s hand is guiding us. Afterward, Sister Rebecca brought bread still warm from her oven, and we sang hymns by lamplight. The peace of it all makes me wonder...how long will such peace last?

 

As Anna’s eyes traced the faded ink, the attic around her seemed to dissolve. The smell of cedar gave way to the scent of warm bread. The flicker of the bulb blurred into the glow of lamplight. She could almost hear the creak of benches, the low hum of voices rising in song.

 

She wasn’t just reading anymore...she was there.

 

Women in long skirts and straw hats leaned close over hymnbooks. Men in stiff collars nodded as scripture was read aloud. The warmth of fellowship wrapped around her like a blanket, so vivid she forgot the dust in her lungs, the ache in her chest.

 

Then a cough tore through her, dragging her back. The lamplight vanished. The attic returned...dim, dusty, silent.

 

She looked down at the diary in her lap, her pulse quickened.

 

From downstairs, her mother called again: “Anna, don’t lose yourself in your stories. Just finish the job and come down for a rest.”

 

Anna swallowed hard. She wasn’t losing herself. She was finding something.

 

She turned the page.

 

April 14, 1905 Brother Russell himself is coming to Pittsburgh. We will hear him speak. They say he believes the year 1914 will change the world forever. I cannot imagine such a thing, but I feel it in my bones...something is coming.

 

Anna’s flashlight flickered. She pressed her hand against the diary, her body aching but her spirit stirred.

 

She whispered, “Something is coming.”

 

And she knew she would not be able to stop reading.

Edited Wednesday at 12:05 PM by Timl1980