Firthville High: Tracy and Jason

Chapter 1: relics in the attic (Tracy)

Dust motes danced in the afternoon sunbeams that slanted through the attic window, illuminating a forgotten world of forgotten things. Tracy, a lanky fifteen-year-old with a mop of unruly brown hair, navigated the obstacle course of old furniture and boxes, his sneakers whispering against the creaky floorboards.

The air hung heavy with the scent of mothballs and forgotten memories. Tracy, ever the explorer, reveled in the atmosphere, his nose twitching with the thrill of discovery. He was on a mission, not for treasure or pirate booty, but for something far more intriguing – a time capsule of his own family's history.

His mom had mentioned an old photo album tucked away in the attic, a relic from his parents' pre-kid days. Tracy, curious about his past and his parents' younger selves, had volunteered to clean out the attic in exchange for the chance to delve into the dusty chronicle.

He weaved between a wobbly antique rocking chair and a towering wardrobe, finally reaching a forgotten corner shrouded in cobwebs. There, nestled beneath a threadbare tapestry depicting a majestic stag, lay a thick, leather-bound album. The cover was worn smooth with age, the inscription barely visible. With trembling fingers, Tracy brushed away the dust, revealing his mother's elegant handwriting: "Our Story."

A giddy anticipation bubbled in his chest. He carefully lifted the album, the leather hinges groaning in protest as he opened it. The first page displayed a faded photograph of a young woman with sparkling eyes and a mane of fiery red hair – his mom, barely out of her teens, radiating a carefree joy. On the next page, a younger version of his dad beamed back at him, a goofy grin splitting his face.

Tracy flipped through the pages, a captivating story unfolding before him. Pictures of his parents' college days, their goofy honeymoon photos, and then – there they were again, his parents, but this time different. Their faces, etched with a newfound love and exhaustion, cradled two chubby babies. Tracy, with his mop of brown hair and wide, curious eyes, stared back at him. But nestled beside him, swaddled in a blue blanket, was another baby. He looked identical to Tracy, the same curious eyes, the same mop of hair, but there was a subtle difference – a tiny birthmark shaped like a crescent moon above his left ear.

Tracy's breath hitched. In his mother's neat handwriting below the picture was a caption: "Jason and Tracy, 6 months old."

His mind reeled. A twin brother? Why had he never known? He flipped through the rest of the album, searching for any mention of Jason, but there were none. The photos documented his own childhood – first steps, birthday parties, awkward school photos – but there was no trace of his brother.

A cold dread settled in his stomach. Where was Jason? Why wasn't he in any of the pictures? Tracy scanned the captions, his eyes catching on a recurring one beneath photos taken shortly after the baby pictures: "Missing you, Jason."

The weight of the unspoken truth pressed down on him. Jason wasn't missing; he was gone. A million questions swirled in his mind. What happened to Jason? Why did no one ever talk about him? A pang of longing, sharp and unfamiliar, twisted in his gut. He yearned to know his brother, this reflection of himself who seemed to have vanished into thin air.

Tracy slammed the photo album shut, the finality of the gesture echoing the silence of the attic. The playful curiosity that had fueled his exploration moments ago had morphed into a gnawing determination. He wouldn't let his brother' memory gather dust in the attic like forgotten furniture. He had to find out what happened to Jason.

He carefully replaced the album beneath the tapestry, a newfound purpose settling in his heart. The attic, once a dusty labyrinth of forgotten things, now held a whispered secret, a mystery that Tracy vowed to unravel.