Chapter 8 - The Unread Letters
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In the quiet attic of the house by the river, a metal lockbox sat on the bottom shelf of the bookcase.
Inside were documents no one else needed to read: Nathan's frantic early letters, Victoria's polished apologies, the court transcripts, and the DNA report that sat at the very bottom, largely ignored for over a decade.
Noah, now seventeen, sat cross-legged on the wooden floor with the box open in front of him.
Grace stood by the open attic window, holding a cup of tea and watching the autumn leaves drift down from the oak trees outside.
"Are you looking for something specific?" Grace asked gently.
Noah picked up the DNA report, turning the thick, cream-colored paper over in his hands. The corporate letterhead of the medical facility was crisp, the numbers precise, the medical jargon completely absolute.
"I wanted to see what it felt like," Noah said, his voice quiet.
"And what does it feel like?"
He dropped the paper back into the box and slammed the metal lid shut with a dull, echoing clatter.
"Like printer ink," he said simply. "It doesn't mean anything."
Grace smiled, taking a sip from her mug. "Printer ink and expensive paper. That's all it ever was to them."
"Dad says I should keep it for my medical history," Noah added, leaning back against the bookshelf. "In case I ever need to know about genetic predispositions or whatever."
"Your father is a very practical man," Grace noted. "He’s probably right. But knowing where your allergies come from doesn't make someone a parent."
Noah looked around the attic, noticing the old boxes of his childhood toys—the wooden blocks, the toy airplanes, the books with dog-eared pages where he had learned to read aloud.
"Do you ever think about moving, Grace?" he asked suddenly. "To a bigger place? Closer to the city?"
Grace raised an eyebrow. "And leave this creaky old house? Who would yell at your father when he forgets to lock the back gate?"
"He's gotten better at locking the gate."
"He's gotten better at being reminded," Grace corrected with a grin. "No, Noah. I like the river. I like the trees. Some things don't need upgrading just because they're old."
Noah stood up, brushing dust from his knees.
"Dad's downstairs making lunch. He burned the toast again."
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"Of course he did," Grace sighed playfully. "Some traditions are sacred."
As they walked down the wooden stairs together, Noah didn't look back at the lockbox. The past was secured, locked away where it belonged, while the present waited in the kitchen with burnt toast and a father who had come when he called.
