The floorboards were covered in dust, and warped as they were, and prone to creaking squeals like nightmare

creatures, the footing in the attic was unsure, unsafe. He only came up here once every few months, when the idea got to him, from somewhere in his mind in that resting place where ideas lay hidden, that he may have forgotten something, left it among the discarded pieces of furniture and old household items that now took up so much space that navigation through that maze of sundry objects was close to impossible. Today was an altogether different day. A day that came every so often, and only after much needed, but still dreaded self examination. The urge had been too great, and so despite his hurting back and weakened knees, he made the ascent. The air was close, and hot. The lone window, also dust covered, let in a constant stream of sunlight on the piles, and the heat baked it like an oven. The smell was of soft rotting. The smell of time. He walked passed a sofa, now a tattered remnant, and also a chest of drawers that had belonged to his grandmother. Scratched and beaten by the long flown years, he could not help but feel remorseful and wondered if this piece, once the vessel for her clothing did not also contain a piece of her spirit, and if it watched him, and his purposes this day. Crossing to the back of room, against the wall, he bent down to move a collection of yellowed newspapers. These were from across many decades, mementos kept for the purpose of making a chronicle of the odd and terrible events one witnesses while living a normal life. They too carried that old smell, and looked as if a single touch was cause their ancient bodies to crumble into little bits of dust. He dug on, and soon found the box beneath a broken knapsack. Buried as it was, it looked pristine, immune to age. It was made of hard and polished chestnut and had on the top the engraved initials B.B. It opened silently, its hinges still greased after so long a time unopened. Some scraps of paper lay inside, items of no importance, but at the bottom was the prize. A photograph, black and white and depicting a man of hard stature, broad shouldered and bearded with gray and white whiskers. His eyes were mirrors that reflected a world of wonder, a glass through which a man of common disposition would find himself humbled, brought low by their power and their force. The eyes of his father. He inhaled a breath laden with sadness. A shadowed agony there among the disorganized and cluttered remains of his life. Folded next to the photograph was a letter, scrawled small and quick, that his father had written all those years ago. He put his glasses on, affixing them with his creaking fingers. He read. Roger, As I stand here on the fatal shore, my mind is adrift among the clouds of possibility. They move across the skies like little boats, like he boat I will soon board, bound for the bottom of the world. The journey thus far has been a hard one, with many men deserting to return home, to the safe comforts provided for them by the more civilized world. I have resisted until now, when my thoughts have turned to you. I wonder if you are safe. I wonder if my absence has caused too large a rift, if you have fallen on hard times at home, with your grandmother. I think you know I

must continue, but my hope is that you understand the reason I have left. I go to seek what few men have dared to dream of: the lowest extremities of this planet. It is an undertaking, a calling, that I would be derelict to refuse. Pray for me, my son. I will pray for you, as well. I will pray as I have these long months that you will not allow the world to mold you. I will pray that your spirit will shine through, and that the wonders of the world will be yours to see. Be not sedentary. Let the currents of life bring to a fatal shore of your own. -Your father, Bernard Barron. Folding back the note, he sat on the creaking boards and held the paper close to his heart. His glasses fell as he inclined his head, his imagination conjuring an image of his life, and he knew that the words he had read had gone unheeded. Alone as he was, he imagined he was a fixture like the pieces around him, left in the space to be covered in the dust of the ages. He stared at the ground for a long while, and before his eyes the boards beneath became the boards of a deck, and the close air smelled no more of age and rot, but of salt. He felt the chill, and the birds above sang in short notes the melody of the wide world. Against his mind, the waves crashed and caked the side of his ship with residue but nothing dulled his vision. Above, like electric signs, the stars shone brightly in their sweeping ancient patterns to guide him to the fatal shore. He pointed and spoke loudly, and voices answered, and he smiled as the breeze bit his bearded face. The horizon was his plaything. He put everything in its proper place, and closed the box. He stood, feeling the pain in his back once more, and in an instant the salt air and sounds of water became the creaking noise, and the world was as dusty and as cluttered as it once was. He walked himself back through the maze, and before descending the stairs looked back once more toward the little box. He turned his head. Perhaps next time, he thought.