The Bear in the Attic

Margaret climbed the attic stairs, her knees protesting each step. At seventy-eight, she carried memories heavier than any box she might find up there. But her granddaughter Lily was turning seven next week, and Margaret had promised to find something special.

Dust motes danced in the slanted sunlight as she lifted the lid of a cedar chest. There, wrapped in yellowing tissue paper, was Barnaby — the teddy bear her friend Thomas had given her on her eighth birthday, three months before he'd moved away. Thomas with his perpetually untamed hair, always falling into his eyes as they ran through the meadow catching fireflies in mason jars.

Barnaby's brown fur was worn to velvet in spots, his black button eye slightly loose. Margaret stroked his head, and suddenly it was 1954 again. She and Thomas, running races to the old oak tree, breathless and happy, believing summer would last forever.

They'd written letters for a while, then gradually, as childhood does, they'd drifted apart. Margaret had wondered about him over the years — whether he'd married, whether he was still alive. The internet made finding people possible now, but somehow it felt like cheating.

"Gram? Are you okay?" Lily's voice floated up the stairs.

Margaret wiped her eyes. "Fine, sweet pea. Just visiting an old friend."

She descended slowly, Barnaby tucked in her arms. Some treasures aren't really things at all — they're doorways to who we used to be, reminders that love, like a well-loved bear, only grows softer with time.