Parker

    You step into the attic of what is now the house that your family owns but you know will never be home. It is completely dark except for the thin sliver of light that shines out from the stairwell which you just stepped out of. You feel along the wall, it's rough, unsanded, boards covered in dust and cobwebs. Your fingers find a switch, and you push it up. A single bulb struggles to turn on in the center of the room. Around you there are piles of boxes heaped up against the wall their contents spilling out onto the floor. A single journal lies in the center of the floor and you move over to it, lift it up, and open it to the first page. Inside, a loopy handwriting reads; For Parker, when the time is right. You trace the words as you read then pull your finger back, realizing. That's your name in the same handwriting your grandma had. You flip through the journal until you find the last entry, 12/03/14. But wait, you think, she died in 2001. That's what you were told anyway, there never was a service.