Attic Box

I shiver as I stare down at the last box in Aunt Agatha’s attic.

‘Wait until spring.’

I pick at the dry tape, barely holding the yellowing paper in place. My aunt became melancholic every winter, her asthma worsening as the days grew colder. How many years has it been here? Now my only relative has gone, the disease having claimed her as she feared. She brought me up after my parents were killed in a car crash. She didn’t have children of her own - never wanted them, she said, but welcomed me with open arms and a warm heart. The inked words blur as tears fall.

‘Hurry up, child. Open it.’

I can hear her voice as clearly as if her ghost is whispering in my ear. I wish it was, so I wouldn’t feel so bereft.

The box contains a few documents. A letter at the top says, ‘Read this first.’ I squint in the dim light, trying to make out the words.

‘You’re not alone. I had a daughter, two years older than you, given up for adoption. She’s looking for me, but I can’t face her. If you choose to accept her, you have a cousin.