Realization dawned: This was not a secret addition to our own house; it was simply a sneak peek into our neighbor’s home.
I t wasn’t simple to get to the loft.
You had to climb up to it via a ladder that descended from the sky gently maneuvering it through a trap door in the second-floor ceiling with a long stick.
We didn’t get to go up there too often. To my parents it must have been a slightly inconvenient rather hazardous storage space — but to my siblings and me it was pure adventure.
It was a world of wood and plaster and brick covered in a thick layer of choking dust and lit by a single dangling lightbulb. It housed endless boxes suitcases — the old-fashioned flat rectangular kind — and the kind of furniture you don’t throw away even when you’re not using it anymore. We explored every nook and cranny of the low-roofed space above our home certain that hidden in the walls we’d find ancient treasure or mysterious discoveries.
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