When my grandmother died, she left behind more than memories. She left us a house full of things no one wanted to touch. Every trinket, every photo frame felt as though it held a secret, coiled tight and waiting to spring open.
The house itself was a secret. Nestled at the end of a winding road, it sat in a pocket of forest that seemed untouched by time. Its shingles were worn, its paint faded, and ivy crawled up the walls like veins on an aging hand. To me, it had always felt alive, breathing in whispers and shadows, with stories pressed into its very foundation.
The family swarmed the house the day after the funeral, their grief drowned out by the sound of possessions being divided. My aunt wanted the antique mirror in the dining room; my mother wanted the set of bone China. The cousins squabbled over furniture and the worn Persian rug in the living room. No one mentioned the attic.
The attic wasn’t just a place in the house. It was a presence.
My grandmother, sharp-eyed and mischievous, had warned us away from it when we were kids. “The attic isn’t for children,” she would say. “It’s where secrets go to sleep.” She never locked it, though. She didn’t need to. The stories she spun were enough to keep us out.
But I wasn’t a child anymore.
The staircase leading to the attic was narrow and steep, the wood creaking beneath my weight. Dust motes floated in the dim light, and the air smelled of mildew and mothballs, thick with the scent of old paper and forgotten things.
The attic was a tomb for the past. Old furniture covered in sheets stood like ghosts in the corners. Stacks of newspapers yellowed with age teetered precariously on boxes labeled in my grandmother’s neat handwriting.
And there it was—the box.
It sat in the farthest corner, half-hidden under a tattered quilt. I hesitated before stepping forward, as if crossing an invisible line. The box was smaller than I expected, its once-bright paint faded to an indistinct gray-green. The hinges were rusted, the wood cracked and soft with age.
I crouched beside it, brushing off a layer of dust. My hands shook as I lifted the lid.
Inside, shards of glass sparkled like tiny fragments of starlight. They caught the weak sunlight streaming through the attic’s small window, refracting it into fragile rainbows. Beneath them lay a stack of letters tied with a ribbon. The paper was yellowed and brittle, the ink faded but legible.
I pulled out the first letter, my heart pounding.
"To My Darling Star," it began.
The words that followed were a confession, raw and vulnerable, written in a hand I didn’t recognize.
"The night we first met, I swore I saw the heavens open just for you. I’ve kept the pieces, you see. The shards of that moment, when the world shifted and the stars fell at our feet."
I sat back, stunned.
The letters told a love story I had never imagined—a story that had nothing to do with my grandfather. The writer spoke of secret meetings under the moonlight, stolen kisses, and dreams of escaping together.
Each letter was more intimate than the last, unfolding a relationship that had been as consuming as it was forbidden. The last letter stopped me cold.
"The stars may have fallen for us, but the world does not forgive what it does not understand. I will leave, not because I don’t love you, but because I love you too much to see you suffer. Keep the stars, my darling. They are ours, even when we cannot be."
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The attic’s secrets churned in my mind, refusing to settle.
Who had written those letters? And why had my grandmother kept them, hidden but not destroyed?
I started asking questions the next morning, carefully at first.
“Do you know much about Grandma’s life before she married Grandpa?” I asked my mother over coffee.
She frowned, distracted by her phone. “Not really. She didn’t like to talk about it. Why?”
“I just… I wondered if she ever had someone before him.”
“Who knows? That was a different time. People didn’t always have the luxury of marrying for love.” She looked up, a curious glint in her eyes. “Why are you asking?”
I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Just curious.”
But curiosity wasn’t enough. I needed answers.
I went back to the attic the next day, this time with a notebook. I wanted to catalog everything—the letters, the glass shards, even the faint scent of lavender that clung to the box as though it had been sealed with memory itself.
The letters painted a picture so vivid I could almost see it. My grandmother, young and wild, with a laugh that made people forget themselves. Her lover—a shadowy figure in my imagination—must have been someone equally magnetic.
One letter described a night in the woods, their laughter mingling with the sound of leaves rustling in the wind. Another spoke of a small diner on the edge of town, where they would meet in secret, their hands brushing under the table.
"You said once that stars can’t choose where they fall, but I don’t believe that. I believe they fall where they’re needed most. You are my falling star, my light in the dark."
The glass shards haunted me.
I held one up to the light, turning it over in my fingers. It wasn’t glass, not exactly. It was lighter, more delicate, like it might dissolve if I held it too long.
The idea that these were pieces of the night sky seemed absurd, but as I stared at them, I couldn’t shake the feeling that they were something extraordinary.
Had my grandmother believed it? Had she collected these fragments as a tangible representation of something intangible? Or had they been a gift, a token of love from someone who saw her as their entire universe?
By the third day, the attic had become my obsession. I spent hours there, poring over the letters and cataloging every detail.
It wasn’t long before someone noticed.
“You’ve been spending a lot of time up there,” my aunt said, cornering me in the kitchen. Her tone was casual, but her eyes were sharp.
“There’s a lot of interesting stuff,” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Interesting, huh?” She crossed her arms, leaning against the counter. “Like what?”
I hesitated. “Just… old family things. Letters, mostly.”
“Letters,” she repeated, her gaze narrowing. “You didn’t happen to find anything about Evelyn, did you?”
The name hit me like a punch to the gut.
“Who’s Evelyn?” I asked, feigning ignorance.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Someone your grandmother knew a long time ago. Someone she never stopped thinking about.”
That night, Evelyn became more than a name.
I went back to the attic, holding the letters with reverence, like they might shatter in my hands. I focused on the earlier ones, hoping to unravel who Evelyn had been to my grandmother.
"I didn’t expect you to smile at me that day," one letter began. "But you did, and the world tilted. I didn’t know then how much I would give to keep that smile, how much it would hurt to lose it."
The voice was tender, aching. It spoke of meetings in secret gardens and whispered dreams of escape. I could almost see them—a young woman with my grandmother’s sharp eyes and quick wit, and Evelyn, her unknown partner in rebellion.
Their love was a quiet defiance, built in stolen moments and soft-spoken promises.
One letter ended with a line that broke me:
"I would have built us a world, if the one we lived in hadn’t been so cruel."
I wasn’t ready to bring Evelyn up to my family again, but I didn’t have a choice. My aunt was watching me too closely, her curiosity bordering on suspicion.
When she caught me heading for the attic again, she blocked the staircase.
“Enough,” she said firmly. “What are you looking for?”
I hesitated, clutching the box of letters behind my back. “I just… I want to understand her. Grandma. There’s so much we didn’t know about her.”
Her expression softened for a moment before hardening again. “Some things are better left unknown.”
“Why?” I demanded. “Why are you so afraid of me finding out the truth?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she turned and walked away, leaving me with more questions than answers.
The final stretch of the letters changed everything. They weren’t written by my grandmother—they were written to her.
Evelyn’s voice was clear, steady, unflinching.
"You made me believe in things I thought were impossible. Love, freedom, hope. Even as I write this, I can still feel your hand in mine, your laughter in the air. You are my home, my reason. I will carry you with me, always."
The realization hit me like a storm. Evelyn had loved her fiercely, but the world hadn’t allowed them to be together. The letters were all that remained of their story—a story my grandmother had hidden, even from those closest to her.
I spent hours crafting a careful narrative for my family. When I finally brought the letters downstairs, they stared at me like I was carrying a bomb.
“I found these in the attic,” I said, placing the box on the dining room table. “They’re from someone named Evelyn. Someone who meant a lot to Grandma.”
My mother was the first to speak. “Evelyn,” she murmured, her voice tinged with recognition.
“You knew about her?” I asked, stunned.
She nodded slowly. “Not everything. Just…fragments. Mom mentioned her once, years ago. She said Evelyn was her best friend. But I always wondered…”
Her voice trailed off, and the room fell silent.
We spent the next few hours reading the letters together, piecing together a love story that had been buried for decades. By the time we finished, there were tears in everyone’s eyes.
“She loved her,” my mother said softly. “She really loved her.”
As I left the house that night, I looked up at the sky. The stars seemed brighter somehow, their light sharper and more vivid. I thought of my grandmother and Evelyn, of the love they had shared and the world that had tried to erase it.
They had kept their stars, even when the sky turned against them.
And now, their story would shine for all of us to see.
Sasha Vershynin is a 16-year-old writer from California, where the rhythm of the ocean and the vastness of the desert provide the backdrop for their creativity. Sasha’s work often reflects their deep empathy and introspection, shaped by a journey through personal struggles, resilience, and the desire to create meaningful change. As a passionate advocate for mental health and feminism, they balance their writing with leadership in nonprofit work, organizing community events, and empowering others. Sasha believes in the power of storytelling to bridge gaps and give voice to those who need it most. When they’re not writing, they’re often found exploring the natural world or dreaming up future endeavors to help others.
"letters" by Muffet is licensed under CC BY 2.0.
