She took a step closer, wringing her hands nervously. “I was wrong,” she continued, her voice breaking. “We were all wrong. I… I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just… I just want you to know that I’m sorry.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and hollow. I looked away, staring out the window, watching the rain streak down the glass. Her apology meant nothing to me. It was too late, too little. The damage had been done, and there was no way to take it back.

After a long silence, she turned and left, closing the door softly behind her. I heard her footsteps fade down the stairs, and then I was alone again. I felt a strange mix of emotions, a sense of loss, a flicker of anger, but mostly, I felt nothing. The emptiness had become part of me, like a numbness that had seeped into my bones, dulling everything else.

The days continued in the same gray blur, one bleeding into the next, until I lost track of time entirely. I knew that the world outside was moving on, that people were going about their lives, but it felt distant, unreal. I was just a shadow now, a ghost lingering in the attic, watching the world pass by without me.

Months turned into years. I barely noticed the change, the slow passage of time, the seasons shifting outside the window. My father’s letters kept arriving, like clockwork, each one a reminder of the life I had lost, the life I had chosen to leave behind. I read them sometimes, the neat handwriting, the careful words, but they felt like they were written to someone else.

One day, a letter arrived that was different. It was shorter, more hurried, as if he had written it in a rush. In it, he said he was coming back, that he wanted to see me, to talk. I felt a strange pang of something—fear, maybe, or hope, or dread. I wasn’t sure. It had been so long since I had seen him, since I had spoken to anyone.

I waited, counting the days, feeling a tension building inside me that I couldn’t explain. And then, finally, he arrived. I heard the front door open, heard his footsteps on the stairs, and then, there he was, standing in the doorway of the attic, looking at me with a mixture of relief and sadness.

For a moment, we just looked at each other, neither of us speaking. Then, slowly, he stepped into the room, his gaze softening as he took in the sight of me. I could see the sadness in his eyes, the regret, the weight of all the things he had wanted to say but couldn’t.

“I missed you,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “I thought about you every day.”

I felt a lump in my throat, a flicker of something I hadn’t felt in a long time. I looked away, not trusting myself to speak.

I didn’t look up when I heard the attic door creak open again, the familiar sound of footsteps drawing closer. This time, it was my mother, standing there with a brand-new phone in her hand. She walked over and placed it down on the floor in front of me. I just watched her, saying nothing.

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She hesitated for a moment before speaking, her voice soft. “I’ve put our numbers in it. Just… if you ever want to reconnect. Talk to us.” She paused, looking like she wanted to say more, but then she only sighed and turned to leave, closing the door gently behind her.

I reached down and picked up the phone, studying it in my hands. It felt strange, like holding a lifeline and a weight all at once. I knew the numbers were there—my siblings’, hers, and my father’s. But I couldn’t bring myself to look at any of them except his. One by one, I deleted each number until only his remained.

I sat there, staring at the screen, trying to decide what to do. The attic was silent, and in that stillness, I felt an urge to reach out, just one last time. After what felt like forever, I dialed my father’s number and listened as it rang.

It went to voicemail.

“Hey, you’ve reached me,” his voice said, calm and familiar. “I’m not at my phone right now, so just leave a message, and I’ll call you back later.”

I swallowed hard, a strange mix of emotions building inside me. “Hey… Dad,” I began, my voice barely more than a whisper. “I just wanted to… to say thanks. For being there.” I paused, feeling the weight of each word. “But… I think I’m going to be gone soon. I won’t be around to… cause problems for the family anymore.”

There was silence on the line after that, just the soft hum of static. I ended the call and saved the voicemail, my chest feeling tight.

I waited until it was dark outside before I slipped out of the attic. Quietly, I made my way to the store, my footsteps feeling heavy, my mind blank. I found what I was looking for and returned, the silence of the empty attic greeting me again as I shut the door behind me.

The rope was strong, heavier than I’d thought. I tied it up, testing the knot to make sure it would hold, and placed the chair beneath it. The attic was still, as if the whole world had gone silent, holding its breath. I climbed onto the chair, staring at the rope, feeling a strange calmness settle over me. This was it—the end of all the pain, the blame, the hurt that had eaten away at me for so long.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and stepped off the chair.

The rope pulled tight, the pressure around my neck sharp and suffocating. My body hung there, every breath a struggle, the pain intense. But in that haze of hurt and darkness, memories began to flicker through my mind, images of the life I’d had before, the person I used to be before everything had fallen apart.

And just as I felt myself slipping away, the phone in my pocket buzzed, a faint vibration against my side. Then it rang, piercing the silence.

I felt a sudden jerk, the rope snapping, and I fell to the floor, gasping for air, the world spinning around me. I lay there, my chest heaving, every breath sharp and painful. My mind was a blur, trying to understand what had just happened.

The phone was still buzzing. Trembling, I pulled it out and saw my dad’s name on the screen. The call had already ended, but then, just a second later, it started to play a new voicemail.

My hands shook as I held the phone to my ear, listening to his voice.

“Hey, I know you’re struggling,” he said, his tone filled with a warmth I hadn’t heard in so long. “But don’t… don’t die. You are my pride and joy in this wicked world that’s persuaded by lies. Believe in yourself. Prove those people wrong… you need to survive.”

The message ended, the phone going silent in my hand. I felt a weight lift off my chest, a wave of relief washing over me as the meaning of his words sank in. He believed in me. He wanted me to keep going, to survive, no matter what the world thought of me.

Tears blurred my vision, and for the first time in a long time, I let them fall. The tears came silently, my shoulders shaking as I clutched the phone, feeling a spark of hope begin to bloom within me.