The attic smelled like memories. A haze of dust motes and browned paper suffused the room. The floorboards creaked when mother and I padded across the groaning wooden slats.
“Start over there,” she said.
The boxes exhaled years as I opened them. The light struggling through the clouded windows shifted as we worked, but we found little more than crumbling books and old sweaters. I moved to a shelf and brushed dust off the books there. Grandfather’s glasses sat beside the tomes.
I put them on.
And the world changed.
Worms crawled between the books. A crack ran along the roof. As I watched, a blue hand squeezed through it. Something tickled my ankles. When I looked down, I saw fairies struggling between the boards, their wings glittering.
I took off the glasses and threw them aside.
“What are you doing?” mother asked.
“N–nothing,” I said. Under my breath, “Grandpa was right.”