The attic smelled of mothballs and old paper, a dense, musty reminder of lives long lived. Mina had been up here a hundred times before, but tonight felt different. The house was unusually quiet for one filled with three generations of her family.

The economic crash had driven them all under one roof—Mina, her parents, her grandfather, and her teenage son. Five people navigating lives on top of one another, trying not to suffocate.

She was looking for old tax documents, a tedious chore her mother had nagged her into. Instead, she found the box.

It was tucked behind a stack of yellowed newspapers, bound tightly with frayed twine. Written across the top in faded ink was a single word: Farokh. Her grandfather’s name.

Mina hesitated. She’d never known him to keep anything sentimental. He was a stoic man, his words clipped, his past shrouded in vague stories of "better times."

The knot gave way with a sharp snap.

Inside were letters, dozens of them, written in delicate Persian script. They weren’t addressed to him but to someone named Azar. Mina’s breath caught as she unfolded one.

"Dearest Azar," it began. "I dream of the day I can hold you again. The world tears us apart, but my love remains steadfast, even as the seas and wars between us grow wider..."

The dates on the letters were from the late 1950s, a time when her grandfather had supposedly been living in Shiraz, newly married to her grandmother. Yet these letters told a different story—a story of a forbidden love, of plans to flee to Europe, of a promise to return that was never fulfilled.

“Mom?”

Mina jumped, stuffing the letter back into the box. Her son, Arman, was standing at the top of the attic stairs, his hair a mess of curls, his eyes half-closed.

“What are you doing up here?” he asked, yawning.

“Just… looking for papers.”

He wandered closer, peering into the open box. “What’s that?”

“Nothing important.” She moved to close the lid, but Arman reached for a letter.

“Wait,” he said, skimming it quickly. His eyes widened. “Is this about Grandpa?”

“Put it back,” Mina snapped, her voice sharper than she intended.

Arman didn’t. “Why didn’t he ever tell us about this?”

Mina swallowed hard. The truth felt heavy in her chest. “I don’t know.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the hum of the attic’s single lightbulb filling the air.

“Do you think he regrets it?” Arman asked finally.

Mina thought of her grandfather’s distant eyes, his occasional bouts of silence when everyone else was laughing. She thought of the love her grandmother had given him, unwavering yet seemingly unreturned.

“Maybe,” she said softly. “Or maybe it’s just too painful to talk about.”

Arman placed the letter back in the box. “Should we ask him?”

Mina shook her head. “Not yet.”

They carried the box downstairs together, setting it gently on the dining table. Tomorrow, she’d decide whether to open the past or let it rest. For now, it sat there, a silent witness to a love story no one in the family had ever known.