It’s ridiculous. Phoebe is fine. She’s thrilled, even. She’s probably asleep in a room full of unicorns and mermaids, dreaming about how the Grinch is just down the hall, and Aunt Evie might secretly be Elsa in disguise. I already had to convince her that she wouldn’t find her full rendition of “Do You Want to Build a Snowman” re-enacted outside her bedroom door entertaining.
We can hold off on that for a couple of weeks.
Still, the first night in a new house brings unfamiliar sounds and rules my body hasn’t learned.
I tug my fuzzy pink robe tighter over my Christmas pajamas and pad into the hallway. The glow of Christmas lights always calms me. I practically live by golden light for as long as I can. I keep them up until I cross into “it’s weird now, you’ve had the lights up too long” territory, and I’m forced to take them down.
I can’t wait to deck the halls. I want to string lights along the overlook above the staircase banister, across the mantle, and around the tree.
This room will feel like literal magic.
The upstairs corridor is long and quiet. Wood settles beneath my feet as I pad down the rug in the center of the floor, past closed doors. The air smells faintly like pine and clean sheets. It’s as if the house is trying to convince me it’s safe.
“I’m just adjusting,” I whisper. I pause at Phoebe’s door, listening for signs of distress.
I’m met with silence, then a soft hum. Like she’s half-asleep and still happy.
Relief loosens my shoulders.
I want her to feel at home here since we’ll be here for a year, but it’s hard to turn off the mom worry. It’s only been the two of us for as long as I can remember. I just want to know she’s okay.
I’m turning back when I notice it.
At the very end of the hall, the attic door is cracked open. Just a sliver. I’m almost sure it wasn’t like that this afternoon.
A thin seam of light stretches across the floorboards, as if someone meant to shut it and missed.
I tiptoe closer, fully intending to push it closed.
But as I get closer, there comes a whisper of cold air… carrying dust and the faintest cinnamon. Like a kitchen after Christmas.
I tell myself to keep walking.
“Do me a favor and skip the last door in the upstairs hall for now. I’m still… sorting some things,” Aiden said this morning, voice careful, like the words were carrying glass.
I want to respect that request.
I stare at the small space of light between the door frame and door, where light still spills onto the floorboards like an accusation.
Two steps. That’s it.
Then I can close it and pretend I never saw it.
I knock softly. “Aiden?”
No answer. There’s not even an echo. It’s like the house swallowed the sound, instead.
Worry tightens in my chest. What if he’s up there, alone?
Another whisper of cinnamon brushes past me, entirely wrong for this area of the house.
I shouldn’t… but I ease the door open anyway.
The bulb at the top of the attic stairs is weak, like it’s barely holding onto whatever life it has left. I climb slowly, counting each step like a measure, until I reach the top.
Red and green totes stack almost to the ceiling. Colorful cardboard boxes line shelves in tidy rows. They’re labeled in the same loopy handwriting: “Wheeler Family,” “Recipes,” “Aiden’s Firsts.”
My throat tightens.
