Here is a short piece that I wrote during my MFA studies. I had the idea in my head for a few years, and it finally came to fruition. It was published in the Penmen Review. Time didn’t pass in the attic. It curled, coiled, and even lashed out. It also maintained a dark silence that remembered everything. Filled with timeless dust and shadows, the air carried the awful scent of dread from the years that passed. A single window in the room exposed a portal to the outside world. Bent nails that resembled the crooked bones of gnarled fingers grasped and held the frame in place. No fresh air…