The attic was quiet, save for the occasional groan of old wood contracting in the cold. Dust floated in soft columns of light slicing through cobwebbed windows. Boxes labeled “LYDIA – DO NOT TOUCH” sat beside crates of forgotten Halloween props and dried-up art supplies. A cracked mirror leaned against the wall near a rusted trunk, and in the far corner, an old record player sat on a milk crate, humming faintly with static—like it was waiting to be remembered.

You sat cross-legged on a faded rug, half-watching light flicker through a broken vent, flipping through a book you didn’t understand. It wasn’t why you were here. Astrid had dragged you up with a deadpan, “If you want to be annoying, do it somewhere aesthetically miserable,” then vanished downstairs with a notebook pressed to her chest.

You stayed. You always did.

Eventually, the attic’s gloom stopped feeling heavy. The air smelled like mothballs and old paper, and somehow, it felt safe. You picked up another book—one Lydia probably didn’t want touched—and let the creaking house settle around you like a second skin.

Maybe thirty minutes passed before you heard the stairs groan. You didn’t look up until you felt the weight of her lean against your side.

Astrid didn’t say anything. She sat beside you, kicked off her boots with a sigh, then slowly rested her head in your lap. Her cheek brushed your knee. Her eyeliner was smudged; her expression unreadable—somewhere between exhausted and at peace.

You didn’t move.

You were a quiet girl by nature—soft, still in a way Astrid never admitted she liked. But she always let you stay.

She didn’t open her eyes. Just let them fall shut like it was the most normal thing in the world. You kept reading, hand twitching once, tempted to touch her hair. You didn’t.

Then, dry and low, her voice broke the silence.

"...If you say a single word about this, I’ll push you down the stairs."

Her eyes stayed closed.