No movements. No sounds. No light.
Even the time has stopped.Everything is still, waiting for the silence to be broken.
---
Decades have passed since the last time the attic room has been attended.
It used to be a sun-lit place. In the room filled with positive energy, even the rare particles of dust were dancing. People, who visited it, always were joyful and optimistic. They would spend a long long time sitting in the armchair, looking at the massive bookshelf that occupied almost all the space.
Some books were neatly placed on the shelves and others lying practically all over the place. The collection was so diverse it was hard to identify who lived in the house. Botanic encyclopedias, Jane Austen’s novels, engineering textbooks, colourful storybooks with unicorns on the cover… Everything you could imagine, you could find there.
However, the attic room was the best place in the house not because of what it contained, but because of its frequent visitor...
Moira was an eight-year-old child. No one was able to keep up with this kid. Her favourite activity was climbing the trees. In the process, she would frighten all the birds, who then would proceed to find the shelter on the windows of the attic room. Covering all the view.
However, her most favourite activity in the whooole big world was going to the field with her mother. It had been their shared hobby since the time Moira started walking.
I really enjoyed watching their little walks out of the window.
Each time, Moira would bring a new set of beautiful flowers or a handful of leaves, which she collected from one of the bushes or trees. At first with a help of mother and then on her own, girl dried the herbs.
Years were passing. Her collection was growing. She had separate books for different types of greenery. On each page, she recorded the name of the plant, the way it was picked and the day when she stumbled upon it.
However, Moira had one favourite book. It was superior not only to the herbarium, but also to the whole book collection that was stored in the attic room.
Do not think that I am too full of myself. No, that is not the case.
It is just a known fact that Moira paid most of her attention to me. She would come to flip my pages almost every day, making sure that all the precious herbs were still in the good condition.
On the rare occasions, she would bring new additions to my pages. Those days were my favourite, as we got to spend so much time together. While preparing the herbs, she would tell me a story connected to the petal or leaf. Each one represented different moments of the life that she wanted to remember. Some of them were dedicated to people.
I became something similar to Moira’s personal diary. I knew all about her.
But once, when my pages weren’t even halfway filled, parents made her go to the boarding school. I still keep a collection of small blue and purple hydrangea flowers. Moira explained to me that with blue flowers she expresses her regret that she has to leave. But the purple ones are her gratitude to me for keeping her memories all these years, and also the promise to come back.
She never did.
Her parents moved out soon after Moira’s departure.
---
The attic room is no more the way it used to be.
Dirt is on all the surfaces.
I am lying among the piles of other books, covered in dust. My leather is no longer shiny. The pages are wrinkly, they have not been white for a long long time now. But I still am keeping herbs safe under my cover, waiting for Moira to keep her promise, to return to me, to our shared memories.
---
When no one expects it, the silent spell of the attic room is finally broken.
At first, the door does not want to give in, but soon enough it opens with a heart-rending squeak.
A small figure enters. Her movements are slow and restricted. The breathing is fast. She rests for a couple of minutes leaning on the door, before proceeding further into the room.
The light of her flashlight slowly wanders across the room. It reaches the shelf, where the book with shabby black leather cover is standing, and stops there.
The previously tense expression on the visitor’s face becomes softer, as she reaches for the book.
I am back. Finally, I am here.
Have you been waiting for a long time?
I wonder whether you kept my memories well…
Let’s have a look.
Some time passes before Moira finds herself seated in a dusty old armchair.
She blows the dust from the cover and opens the book for the first time after almost sixty years.
On the first page, a dried a little crooked chrysanthemum greets Moira. To her surprise, she still can distinguish a faint aroma that comes from it. Now it is more muted, but nevertheless sweet.
This scent brings her to the day when mother presented her this journal.
---
She was a little girl, walking hand in hand with her mom.
It was already autumn. The summer flowers were no longer in bloom. Moira couldn’t wait the next year to come so that she could see them once again.
Suddenly, the wind changed its direction, bringing a sweet scent to the little girl. It was neither the aroma of freshly baked buns from the bakery nearby, nor the smell of mother’s new perfumes. Those were flowers.
Flowers in autumn? Is it possible? – little girl started questioning herself
The only way to find this out was to follow the wind, so she dragged her mother in that direction.
To her surprise, she found a fresh bush of chrysanthemum growing not far from her house. A bright smile started growing on the girl’s face, but the next second it changed to the grim expression.
“But even these flowers will soon die”, Moira expressed her worry to the mother.
“Yes, nothing in this world is permanent. However, you can keep it in your memory”
“How? What if I forget?”
Mother retrieved a book from her bag. It was brand new, the leather was shining in the afternoon sun and the pages were so mesmerizing white.
Moira’s eyes started shining with excitement when she saw a beautiful item.
“Is it for me?”
“Yes, pick several flowers. We will bring them home and dry. Then you can tape them into this book. This way you will never forget”
---
The old woman continues flipping the pages.
Dozens of petals appear right before the eyes, dozens of familiar smells tickle the nose. Each carrying a unique experience, each reminding the elderly lady about her childhood.
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