I remember my grandmother's house and the narrow staircase ascending to its attic.  At the end of the stairs, there was a low door, and the mere thought of what might be hidden behind it fed my imagination for years...
 
After grandmother died, the house was empty for a while. It later sold at a ridiculously low price, making it easy for me to redeem it at an even sillier low price.
 
The cottage is hidden among the dunes, overseeing the sea.  The harsh weather, time and strong winds added to its wrinkles, just like it was an old sailor’s creased face.
 
At night now, in the dark, by the window, I sit and watch the restless silver shuffle of the waves in the moonlight. I listen lost in thoughts and memories to the wind’s soft swing as the house creeks and aches.
 
The staircase leading to the little door to the attic still has the same spell over me as it did during my childhood. Today, I decided to open the mysterious door, so, armed with a flashlight, I started climbing the old wooden ladder.  The narrow steps squeaked under my steps, and my fingers touched timidly the key in the pocket of my skirt. When I reached the top of the stairs, I slipped the key in the old lock. The noise traveled through the whole house. I pushed the door with my foot and walked in gliding through the many threads of spider webs.
 
The attic seemed large, stretching over the entire top of the house.  The wood beams blackened by the passage of time made it look like a church tower.  At the other end of it, a round and dirty window let the light ineffectually take a curious look inside the dusty room. The entire space was full of old trunks, cabinets, an oval mirror about the height of a man, dusty and incomprehensible yellow magazines, a baby stroller with large wheels, and a gramophone with a disc under its twisted arm.  I churned its handle several times and the disc began to rotate.  From its black funnel, a somber voice broke the eerie silence - words I recognized Edith Piaf, La Mer.
 
I lifted the bottom of my skirt dragging on the floor and tried to push a box towards the round window in the corner when, without noticing, I tipped over a picture standing behind the trunk I was pushing.  All my attention quickly shifted towards what looked like the fine portrait of a woman drawn in pencil.
 
I was amazed!  The woman in the drawing, looking happy and full of anticipation, her eyes gazing somewhere in the distance, looked very much like me!  Underneath the obvious features, there was a melancholic beauty. The eyes, the eyes looked filled with knowledge of the life about to swallow her.
 
I looked feverishly in many of the wooden trunks hoping to find out more about the young woman in the drawing but found none. From the corner of my eye, as I walked in front of the oval mirror, I thought I saw a shadow silhouette similar to that in the painting.  It only took a couple of seconds before the woman lost its outlines and disappeared forever in the dusty light of the loft.
 
The room returned quickly to its eerie cob webs invaded existence.
 
I looked down from the small round window at the wet sand below. The waves breaking close by sounded like a whisper calling a name I could not understand....