The Forgotten Diary   The attic had always been Emma’s least favorite place in the house. It smelled of old paper, dried wood, and forgotten years. Dust motes floated lazily in the afternoon light that slipped through a single, grimy window. She had avoided it since childhood, but now—after her grandmother’s death—it had become unavoidable. She was sorting through what remained of a life: trunks of clothes no one wore anymore, boxes labeled receipts, letters, miscellaneous. The air was heavy with silence, broken only by the creak of floorboards beneath her careful steps. That was when she noticed the diary.