Pieces

By Yangsyuan (Clarice) Fu. '27

The sound from the attic woke me in the middle of the night again. Although for my age now it takes some effort, I turned my head to the right, looking for Ginger for reassurance. He lay beside my stomach, all curled up and restfully sleeping. I wonder if it’s only me that’s haunted by the unknown sound. I cannot scarcely describe whenever I bring it up during coffee with Cassandra and Dory, they just laugh it off.

“Call someone and tell them to fix that racket”,

Cassandra always retorts after sipping her coffee. Don’t they think I’ve tried? No matter how many times the local carpenter comes, there is nothing to fix. 

Everyone thinks I’m just being paranoid, just an old woman with too much time and too many memories. But they don’t live in this house nor do they want to hear what I hear, or see what I see when I close my eyes at night.  They only saw creaky wood, crusty half-peeled wallpaper and old plumbing. They didn’t know the attic held the most of my life. Or hers. I forcefully close my eyes, trying to ignore the sound and go back to sleep. It is still rapping on the ceiling, rapping–pestering me to no end. The repeated sound reminded me of my mom haranguing me to complete various chores and assignments. With my drowsiness fully gone now, I endure the pain from those old knees of mine and stiffly climb out the bed, afraid that I will wake Ginger up. Slowly, I dragged my thin bare feet across the rugged carpet. Reaching out to the wall, I flicked on the lights in the corridor. Flickering, they somewhat illuminated the hallway. Mom had never bothered to fix the one in the middle. 

“Waste of money”, she told my sister and me. Ever since, I never really thought about it. I felt my lips trembling, her temper had been rather short towards the end. But even then, I had always convinced myself that she wasn’t just her temper. She was soft in ways she rarely let anyone see. I always saw her in pieces, and maybe that’s all anyone ever ses of someone else; just pieces, or an unfinished puzzle. As the staircase to the attic beckoned at the end of the hallway, I hesitated on whether I should finally grasp the doorknob and put an end to this agonising sound once and for all, or convince myself that this is just a stupid illusion of mine. My mother’s blurry image appears in my head, although she never got to age, my memory of myself peeking at her going to the attic forever rests in my head. After spending a lifetime grieving over her death, I did not want to risk the chance of her pulling me into the endless hole of sadness again. 

“Pull yourself together”, I told myself. “You’re not a young girl anymore”. 

I twisted the worn doorknob and opened the door slowly, its hinges sending cries echoing throughout the house. I searched, my hand on the old textured wall in the darkness, searching for the light switch. I doubtfully turn on the light switch, just to see the once “invisible” dust swirling around the room. The attic was a lot smaller than I had imagined; the ceiling was not full of cobwebs, and there were no dead insects on the floor either. My eyes traced to the open window on the right side of the attic, then to the hole on the cracked wall on the left side. This must be where the mysterious sound comes from, I laugh at my old superstitious self. Maybe the attic never held monsters… As I scanned the room, my eyes settled on a white desk positioned against the wall ahead. Though it was rusted, the old paint browned and desaturated, standing tilted and with its bottom drawers hanging open like a slack jaw, there was something strange about it… As if it were pulling me in, I walked toward it with no hesitation and stopped when I spied the tattered letter on top of it. It was wrapped around by an envelope with no name on it. I paused, considering it carefully. My spindly hand was trembling, yet its eagerness could hardly be contained. Carefully, I reached out and grasped it gently with my fingers. As I opened it, a gust of wind blew against the envelope, sending rustles echoing through the attic. My heart stops for a moment when I recognize the handwriting of the letter. It was my mom’s… All these years, I told myself I’d moved on. That the silence in this house was merely emptiness.  But here, in this dusty attic, was the possible missing chapter of the life I always sought– the part I never dared to read. 

Dear Molly, 

If you’re reading this, you probably already know about my illness. I’m sorry I never had the courage to tell you first. Every time I looked at you, your bright eyes, your boundless energy, I wanted to protect you from the truth, so that I could be the perfect mother. I wanted to keep seeing myself as strong, dependable. But the truth is, I maybe wasn’t always any of those things. 

I was scared, Molly. Not just of me leaving, but for leaving you alone, of being misunderstood. I wonder if you remember me only for the hard days, the short temper and the silence, but I was more than my worst moments. I was also a girl who once danced barefoot in the rain. I was someone who loved stories and feared endings. 

I hope one day, when you think of me, I’ll be the woman who loved you with everything she had, even if she didn’t always show it right. 

And you Molly, my only wish is for you to not let anyone tell you who you are. Never let anyone write your story for you. 

I love you always. 

–Mom 

I stood there speechless, feeling a sense of hollowness crawling up on me. 

As I walked away from the attic, to the “home” that now holds the complete story, I felt as if I had stepped into the place I was supposed to have known and experienced for decades. The once spine-chilling sound from the attic now sounds like whispers of family members gone and present. Walking down the once foreboding staircase did not bother me as much now, and I saw an orange figure at the end of the hallway. 

“Ginger”, I cried out, heartfully, reaching my arms to my faithful companion. 

Maybe I’ve only ever known fragments of my mother, and even of myself. 

Author's Note:

The thematic connection of this short story is to the unit from Things Fall Apart: “There is never a single story about any person, time or place.”  The protagonist in Pieces opens up a new perspective on her past and future after discovering a letter written by her mother. Growing up, although her life is entangled with her mother’s strict behavior, she always treats her with deep respect and relies heavily on her. However, after her mother unexpectedly passed away, a scene begins to form deep inside the protagonist. As she reads the letter, she gains insight into her mother’s side of the story, revealing the intentions behind actions such as hiding her illness. Through this, she also begins to recognize the missing pieces of her own perspective. 

The story reveals how, regardless of one’s role or situation, everyone hides parts of themselves and presents only certain versions of their theory to specific people. This masking can be driven by pressure, responsibility, desire, or insecurity. In Pieces, the attic and its terrifying sounds serve as a motif for the grief and unresolved past that the protagonist has never fully faced. To make this motif more impactful, the story uses vivid imagery. The imagery builds suspense and tension, leading the audience to expect a horrifying ending filled with monsters. However, the true conclusion–marked by emptiness and personal revelation–is far more haunting, prompting the audience to connect the theme with their own experiences.