The ladder groaned under Michael’s weight as he climbed into the attic, dust drifting down like slow snowflakes. He paused at the top, one hand gripping the beam, the other shielding his eyes as they adjusted to the dim light filtering through the small round window.
“Careful,” Nora called from below. “That step sticks.”
“Everything in this house sticks,” he replied, half-smiling.
They had lived there eleven years. Long enough for the house to feel permanent.
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