“Oh Granddad, how will I cope without you? How am I going to manage cleaning out this place?”
She slowly walked through each room lovingly touching the photos and memorabilia on display.
“I can’t do it,” she sobbed. “Maybe if I start in the attic. There are things there I am less familiar with, it will be easier.”
The timber creaked and groaned as she climbed the stairs to the loft.
The last light of the day filtered through the dusty small window. In the shadows she noticed the chair, the one her grandfather had made back in 1953. It was one of four he had made for his new bride.
As she sat in the chair, she heard music that reminded her of the American Graffiti soundtrack.
Where was it coming from?
She stood up to look around. The music stopped. When she sat again in the chair the music began.
She closed her eyes, lost in the words and beat of the music. A familiar scent wafted past. Sandalwood. The same fragrance in her grandfather’s after shave. She knew her grandfather was there in the attic with her to guide and protect her.
