Selfish Appetite [5 Seconds of Summer]

[50]

"The last entry."

- -

When people think of an attic, their minds often conjure a dimly lit, cramped space filled with forgotten boxes and bags—relics of things no one wants, uses, or needs anymore. Cobwebs. Dust. The stale smell of naphthalene and enclosure.

The attic of Sloan's childhood home is nothing like that.

Everything is spotless—thanks to the cleaning crew Alice pays to maintain the estate ever since she and Sloan move away.

The floorboards don't even creak under Sloan's bare feet, and that upsets her. Not a single speck of dust. Not one loose board on the stairs. Not one crooked photo frame.

The only part of her childhood home slightly out of place is the garden, its plants bowed by the relentless cold. Even with care, nothing can stay fresh in temperatures like this.

Sloan finds the thought oddly soothing. At least something in this house feels as untended as she does.

She uses a stack of books to keep the attic door open and clicks on the light. A few sun rays trickle through the corner window, but they aren't enough. Her eyes skim over the stacks of storage boxes, and she notices the neat cursive handwriting labeling them.

Her grandmother's hand—of course.

Alice packed away her parents' belongings before they moved, storing them in a space Sloan rarely thinks about, let alone visits. But she knows the memories are here, waiting. She isn't sure if it's bravery or recklessness that brings her upstairs now.

Most of the boxes are labeled with neutral words: Decorations, Books, Photos, Kitchenware. Some are marked with her parents' names, and she's drawn to them like a magnet. 

Before her fingers even graze the boxes marked with her father's name, her gaze lands on a storage container in the corner of the room. The lid sits ajar, revealing a jumble of contents.

It's immediately clear—this is one of the boxes Alice packed in a frantic rush before they left Catskill.

Sloan's breath catches when she spots the familiar fabrics spilling from the top.

Her mother's scarves, hats, and gloves lie tangled together, each one drenched in memory. A shiver courses through her as she kneels, her fingers hesitating just above the delicate fabrics. Touching them feels intrusive, almost sacrilegious, like she's trespassing on a past she purposefully ignored for nearly two decades.

Her hand finally moves, grazing a forest-green scarf.

She tentatively wraps it around her neck, hoping—aching—that it might still hold her mother's scent after all these years. But the scarf smells only of closed spaces and a faint trace of dust.

Oddly, the absence soothes her. If it had smelled freshly laundered, she knows it would have messed her up even more. 

Digging deeper into the box, her nails catch on something compact and solid. 

She pulls out a small wooden case, the carved flowers along its side instantly familiar.

Her father's handiwork. A bittersweet smile flickers across her lips as she runs her thumb over the grooves. He made this for her mom, she thinks, her heart twisting with the memory.

With a gentle push, she lifts the lid. 

Inside lies a bundle of papers—letters, envelopes, and stamps piled haphazardly together. The yellowed edges and scrawled handwriting tell her everything: this is the correspondence her parents exchanged while her mother was studying abroad.