Golden rays of sunshine filled the room, bringing me a warm feeling as I woke, I gently rubbed my eyes and sleepily emerged from the comforting embrace of my bed. The cold, unforgiving touch of the wooden floor sent shivers racing up my arms, grounding me in the reality of a new day. Fuzzy magenta socks rested on the round green carpet, surrounded by chaotic piles of clothes, cleaning my room was something I struggled with every day. Anticipating the instant disapproval of my mother, I braced myself for the never-ending scolding. Outside, the quiet of the morning was interrupted by the graceful landing of a bird on the peach tree. A pile of snow followed, stirred by the delicate touch of nature. The bird’s melodic chirps echoed, seemingly calling out to its children, an alluring exchange that still left me trying to understand the beauties of nature. Their way of communication was so beautiful. My journey through the hardships of making friends began in the start of kindergarten, where it often felt as though every child had already made friends, leaving little room for additional people. Now, in the fifth grade, it didn’t bother me as much as the characters had become my closest companions. I sat in the same corner at lunch engrossed in the new book I had just started. Every teacher since I had learned to read had praised me for my love of reading. Reading has always been an escape from the real world for me. Stories from the Magic tree house to Harry Potter were a part of my daily life. Today, a Saturday, offered a needed rest from the routine of school. Dressed in an oversized gray hoodie, I descended the wooden stairs, accidentally waking Mason and Sky, the mischievous twins whose adventures ranged from frog-catching armies to imagined knights, occasionally leaving the rest of us without utensils for meals. Mason, with pleading eyes resembling a wet puppy, expressed a desire to join me for breakfast. “I’m just getting breakfast; go back to bed,” said, granting them the joy of a few more hours of sleep. “Fine, it’s too early for us anyway,” Sky replied, yawning and making her way back to bed with Mason. Descending further, I arrived in the kitchen, where piles of yesterday’s disaster still lay. Opening cream-colored cupboards, I took a half-empty box of cereal and milk from the fridge. The sweet taste of Lucky Charms danced in my mouth as I heard the familiar creak of Mom and Dad’s bedroom opening, which woke the rest of the house. Dad’s daily search for keys followed, met with Mom’s usual response. The morning ended with a sloppy kiss on Mom’s cheek as Dad said his goodbyes , the vibrating “vroom” of the car as he went to his work. Mom, interrupting the peace of our Saturday, declared a day of chores after changing the twins’ clothes and playing with them for a few minutes. She came down and told us what to do. My mission: to clear the attic, many bundles of forgotten memories and old junk. Climbing the narrow, steep steps to the attic, I saw a dim glow coming from a round window. Piles of boxes surrounded me, housing Christmas decorations, gardening tools, and stacks of photo albums that painted a forgotten picture of years gone by. Among these artifacts stood a towering antique clock, filled with intricate designs, triggering a flood of memories of Grandma Eli. Grandma, who had shared my never ending love for magical stories, had been a comforting person in my life. Her strawberry pies had been an adored centerpiece at family gatherings. The realization that the clock was hers, the same clock she had given me before passing away after Christmas, brought an uncontrollable surge of tears. Leaning against the clock, I closed my eyes and envisioned a world where magic enveloped every part of life, changing struggles into beauty. The allure of this imaginary world pulled me away from reality, and a sudden gust of wind transformed the clock into a portal. The room disappeared, replaced by a village decorated with Christmas lights. Attempting to flee, the wind’s force overpowered me, planting me face-first into the snow. Brushing off the frosty remains , I found myself in the midst of a magical village. People performed feats of magic – children building snow forts, men leading horses with a mere lift of their hands. A boy in khakis, named Henry, warmly
greeted me. In my daze, I blurted out questions about the date and year, realizing I had mistakenly time-traveled to 1952. Henry, calm, shared the village’s magical reality, explaining his lack of magic. Attempting to lighten the mood, I suggested ice skating on the frozen lake. As we twirled, spun on the enchanted ice, a crack disrupted the joyous moment, plunging me into the icy waters. Panicking, I gasped for help, and Henry, surrounded by a magical glow, lifted me out of the water with a newfound power. Breathing in the frosted air, wrapped in Henry’s sweater, I witnessed his transformation. He had found his magic, and the village mayor crowned him the new chief of Hinton. Overwhelmed with gratitude, Henry assured me he’d find a way to repay me. Guided to a huge red and golden chair in the town square, I learned it was Grandma’s chair, a portal to the real world. Tears streaming down my face, I said good-bye to Henry, promising to remember him. Sitting in the chair, I closed my eyes, envisioning the attic. Upon opening them, I found myself back in front of the antique clock. The faint call of my name from downstairs brought me back to reality. Grabbing a box of old vases, I descended the stairs with a newfound warmth in my heart, knowing I was no longer alone. The attic held many memories, and the magical village held a friend, an unceasing connection across time and space that made every tear shed worthwhile.