May 21, 1947
Ashford Manor
I dreamed of the attic last night.
Not the attic as it is now, with its cracked beams and brittle lace. This was the attic as it must have once been, warm light slanting through dust-speckled glass, a child’s voice singing in another room. There was music, soft and haunting. I could smell lavender, and old wood warmed by sun.
I wa…
