Gently pinching the tiny thread of iridescence, she slowly teased it from the pulsating glob on the floor. I would watch for hours as she coaxed each little wisp from the pile. From time to time, a thread would break instantly dissipating into the air. She never appeared upset by the loss. I think she even broke a few intentionally. To her, some feelings weren't worth preserving.

Once a thread of emotion was extracted, she would place it in a bottle. The shelf was lined with vessels of various shapes and sizes. The energy in the bottles effervesced and played. Upon opening, they might sound like tiny bells or glass breaking. Some of them glowed from the light within. One bottle looked like it was full of tiny bones while another housed shimmery butterfly wings. Even though I had never really understood why she kept a bottle for sorrow, it was probably one of the more fascinating bottles on the shelf. Sometimes it appeared as a ghostly husk. If you watched it long enough, a black liquid would gush into the bottle filling its hollow insides. Always afloat in the viscous substance was a ghostly red pool. She had often contemplated making an impenetrable seal for that bottle of pain, as she feared that opening it would emit a sound never heard by most humans. A moan would be released, a sigh for all eternity that could break even the most callous hearts. She didn't seal it though. She guardedly shared it with few. They would peer into the haze and see Tam singing at her own funeral, Mike holding his bleeding heart, or a snow-covered oriole's nest with a sky blue surgical glove peeking out. They would gaze inside that bottle and know. They would know that she felt their pain. She kept that bottle so others would see it and not feel alone. Although she would never admit it, she secretly thought it was a beautiful and haunting bottle even despite its tragedy.

Sometimes I would trace my fingers over the burnt edges of the yellowing bottle labels. The classic cursive writing told of ephemeral secrets and read like entries from a diary: "Awe of My First Glow Bug Sighting", "Eric's First Smile", "Buzz from a Nirvana Concert", "Apprehension of My First Kiss", "Fright from My First Ghost Story", "Scent of Angel Dreams", "Compassion for Bees Knees and All Things Wee", "Bone Rattling of Autumn Leaves", "Last Light of the Day". You could even find the "Calm of the Sea" on that shelf.

I began watching her process a few years ago. Never wanting to worry anyone about her frequent absence, she created me in her image to take her place. Although I cannot speak, people believe that I am she. If Puff could create Jackie Paper for little Jackie Draper, then surely she could have her own Misty Paper. I don't mind being Misty Paper. I have become more than a shadowy placeholder in her life. She began invoking me to act as her silent witness. She knew her secrets were also mine to guard and nurture. She didn't mind my prying eyes as I scrutinized her reasons for separating each emotion from the throbbing mass on the floor. Mentally questioning why she painstakingly sorted out each strand, she explained that the mass would ferment into madness if left unattended. Some of the dull strands tended to steal magick from those that radiated their light. I think the draining strands were often those that she chose to break. The remaining gems needed room to breathe and glow. I silently watch her day and night lovingly filling her bottles.

The Attic is my home. I can always watch the sunbeams dance in the dust-filled corners. I catch sight of faeries having tea parties and skellies chasing glow bugs. I listen to whispers and voices coming from the bottles on the shelf. I like it here. I hope you will, too.