The First Writing Prize Winner –
SUMMER 2024
is Hee Won Choi
of New York City, New York – USA
THE ATTIC OF TIME
The attic was a sullen place, a tacit confinement of time where memories of the past dawdled about like a tangled mass of seaweed on the shore. The sun was unusually glaring this morning. Its radiant beams blazed through the cracks and crevices of the frosted glass window. It was completely silent, aside from the creaking of the splintered wooden floorboards under Arthur’s gnarled feet. He knelt down to reach for a box of tattered letters, not knowing why or how he even got here in the first place.
Arthur was a widower who had lost his wife eight years prior. His countenance bore the deep furrows of immense sorrow and a life filled with experience, both good and bad. His white, peppered hair was unkempt on top of his fragile frame, a mere shadow of his spry youth. His eyes exuded a void of nothingness; they hung low like curtains drawn in an empty room, the foggy cloud of memory loss looming increasingly more ominous with every passing second.
He slowly opened the velvet-lined container, the once crimson-red fabric was now a light rose hue. The letters were fastened together with a bright scarlet ribbon. They were made of onion skin, a thin and lightweight paper used post-World War II. The ink, especially on the letters he had written early in his life, endured years of time’s suffocating oppression.
Arthur held the letters cautiously, somehow intuitively recognizing their value. For a split second, the cloud of haze flickered with glimpses of clarity. “My letters…” he mumbled, as he unfolded the creases of the first letter. The fog lifted just enough for him to catch a glimpse of his past.
June 30th, 1948
Dear Marilyn,
I write this letter not as an act of compassion and tenderness, but out of pure necessity. My heart cannot handle the ardent flurry of emotions any longer. We first met at the market—bustling, noisy, and enlivened with the herbal aroma of fresh fruits, vegetables, and bread. Every square inch of the place seemed to be filled with a sweet but pungent vigor that I couldn’t help but reside within. Even with my overblown senses, I felt a drop of familiarity and warmth. It was at that very instant when I noticed you. Your back was turned towards me and you were choosing between carnations and roses. I remember your bright smile, penetrating the gaps of my deprived heart. And when you turned, your eyes met mine. And you smiled.
That beautiful smile—it changed everything.
All of a sudden, the market came alive in Arthur. He could hear the hum of the factories in post-war London. He could smell the plethora of spices and herbs being exchanged by vendors and buyers alike. He could taste the lingering tang of metal and grit, a reminder of the city’s recent affairs
The city was still scattered with scars of the war. Buildings were being rebuilt and a concentration of scaffolding seemed to fill the sky, much like spiraling cobwebs composed of assortments of wood, steel, and fiberglass. The market was at the epicenter of this post-war revival. But amidst the lively crowd was a shining star, far more captivating than any other presence. That star was Marilyn. That day, she wore a plaid skirt matted with a gold brocade floral pattern.
He remembered watching her pick out flowers. Her fingers glided through the brilliant medley of roses, daffodils, geraniums, and carnations. And then she had turned around, their eyes intertwining for what felt like an eternity.
Page 1
She had smiled. It wasn’t just some ordinary smile between strangers. Instead, her smile was full of warmth and felicity and had stirred something deep within Arthur, letting loose a roaring wave of dormant feelings in his heart.
I hadn’t planned on talking to you. You seemed perfectly fine by yourself, so… absorbed in your world of flowers. But after you looked at me with those eyes of yours—sweet, docile, but full of life—I didn’t have much of a choice. I remember walking up to you and asking if you needed some help choosing between the flowers, and you chuckled. “It’s rather absurd don’t you think?” you said. “Choosing flowers like my life depends on it. I don’t want to mess this up though.”
We spent the next hour walking through the market. We talked about our lives, our hobbies, and so on and so forth. With every word you uttered, I couldn’t help but marvel at your beauty. Your hair, a river of cascading silk, glistened under the brilliant glow of the sun. Your eyes, constellational orbs of profound intensity and depth, twinkled like stars in the night sky.
That day I bought you the blue daisies, remember? When I surprised you with them, you smiled again, the smile that still and will forever live in my heart, and said “Hmmm. I guess I have no choice. The daisies it is.”
Arthur lowered his trembling hands whilst his fingers wrapped tightly around the aged and withered parchment. The subtle, warm scents combined with the more pungent stench of savory market food—the newly baked bread loaves, the organic kick of conference pears, and the classic saveloys, typically a combination of pork and beef.
Marilyn, I have a sense of direction in life because of you. You made me feel alive again. You brought light into the darkness that had consumed me. The war had taken everything away from me, but you rescued me from all of my ingrained horrors and replaced them with hope—a hope that I will never forget.
Thank you, love. Thank you for being my anchor, my north star. I will hold onto your love for the rest of my days.
With love,
Arthur
The attic seemed quieter now, the birdsong that had filled the air just moments before had vanished, leaving only the echos of Arthur’s erratic breathing. Arthur’s brows creased, his face scattered with wrinkles of the past. He tried desperately to recall her name. A name that had once been a fresh monarch, newly emerged from its chrysalis, but was now a fleeting afterthought that tiptoed on the outer margins of his memory.
He let out a heavy sigh and carefully placed the letter on top of the other letters. He was unsure of what to do next. But something deep in his heart told him he couldn’t stop there. He reached for the next letter in the stack. As he unfolded the next letter, he noticed the paper was brittle and much softer than the one before. His eyes, now clouded with a growing fog of decrepitude, moved stiffly across the page, each word a key unlocking the doors of his past. The smell of the market was replaced with something more intense. He felt his heart, like a rusty Buick Skylark, flicker back to life. The distant past began to unravel before him once more.
December 25, 1952
Dear Marilyn,
Words are not enough to capture the miracle that transpired yesterday. When I looked at his eyes, I saw two precious diamonds that shimmered with a luster that left me speechless. They were pools of pure innocence and perfection, and in that instant, I vowed my life to protect him.
Page 2
When the doctor placed him in my arms… I promise you, I couldn’t breathe. Every orifice in my body was engulfed with an indescribable joy that I had never felt before. But just as quickly as the joy had filled me, it began to peter out and I was left with a harsh reality. I looked down at the fragile little being, and a sudden rush of dread washed over me. What if I wasn’t a good father? What if I couldn’t protect him? My mind spun in a whirlwind of fears and worries about the future.
But amidst my panic, I looked up and saw your smile, a smile that cleansed my mind in an instant, a smile that shouted “It will be okay,” a smile that put my troubled heart at ease. You always seem to have that effect on me, Marilyn.
The memory of it all was still fuzzy, an unclear picture with scattered bits floating around in his mental tank. Nevertheless, he could feel the heavy weight of apprehension, the responsibility to cultivate his own flesh and blood. Underneath all the tension, he saw Marilyn, a grounded beacon that he could hold onto, her skin pale but firm.
It was 1952, a time when the world was recovering from the disorder caused by the war. Arthur had proposed to Marilyn a year after they met and had just recently celebrated their wedding. The flat they rented in Canonbury, an area in north London, was small and compact, but it got the job done. The city’s air was thick with hope and a sense of renewal, and many families like Arthur’s were getting back on their feet.
The birth of their first child had placed a new meaning in life for the both of them. In the 1950s, the role of the father was clear-cut, but the emotional side of fatherhood was seldom considered. Arthur, a man of dignity, a veteran who had confronted the brutalities of war, found himself overcome by a veil of insecurity and fear of failing as a father. He knew it would be an arduous road ahead, and he was ready to give it his all.
He’s a beauty, Marilyn. I can’t stop looking at the little guy. His eyes have the same glint of innocence as I did when I was a young chap. And his heart-wrenching cry—so full of life. I never knew such a small thing could make such a thunderous sound. I don’t know what type of father I’ll be. My own father, tough as a hardy spruce tree. Not one kind word in all my years living with him. I don’t want that for Robert. I hope to be a dad he can confide in, someone he can talk to.
Arthur took a moment to let the memories of that day linger. Robert. That had been their son’s name. He remembered the late-night discussions with Marilyn choosing names they liked. She wanted a simple but powerful name. Robert was her final choice, and Arthur agreed, though it didn’t seem to matter then.
But now, sixty years later, that name held a new meaning. Robert. It rang prominently in his skull, with it bringing small cracks of memories—Robert’s first steps as a toddler; Robert’s oversized uniform on his first day of primary school; Robert, now all grown with a wife and children of his own.
I’m going to be the best father, I can promise you that. Although I don’t know what the future holds for us, I am certain that it will be a journey we’ll face together, arms linked and all.
Thank you for turning my life around. I love you, Marilyn.
Yours forever,
Arthur
Arthur’s heart shook like a frenzied particle accelerator. The memory of it all had been so vivid, but just like before, it was beginning to slip away. He tried feverishly to grasp onto one more memory of Robert—his laugh, the nights spent reading him bedtime stories, anything. But it was no use. The fog returned, covering his mind with its misty clasp.
Page 3
Arthur sighed a deep and melancholic sigh that consumed the attic. He picked up the box and slipped the letter under the first letter in the stack, his hands wavering slightly. The rollercoaster of emotions withered away just as they had blossomed.
Arthur paused, his hand hovering over the final letter as if laying even a finger on it would rekindle a pain much too tormentuous for him to endure. This letter was different from the others. Its creasings were horrifically pronounced, bearing the stains that seemed to resemble Arthur’s own tears.
Something deep inside of him told him that this letter would be the hardest one to get through. The weight within its delicate folds carried an agonizing wound that reconfigured the very essence of his being. As he brought the letter closer to his face, the words grabbed hold of Arthur and pulled him back to a time of immense pain and affliction.
January 20th, 2002
Dear Marilyn,
I…I don’t even know where to begin. I don’t know how to live anymore. The house feels so empty without you. Every little sound—the creaking of the floorboards, ruffling of the leaves through the window, crackling of the vents—feels like an invocation of your absence. Even the air feels different. It seems to have taken on a somber hue.
Truthfully, I’m not sure if I can handle this emptiness, but I’ll try. I know you wouldn’t want me to be this miserable, I’m sorry Marilyn.
I don’t know who I am without you. I never realized how much I was dependent on you, how much of my heart and soul was held firm by your existence. Every morning when I wake up, I expect to see you by my side, with your gentle and reassuring breath. But once I realize that you’re no longer here, a piece of my heart disintegrates. People say grief lessens with time, but it has already been thirteen months since your passing and it hasn’t gotten any better.
Arthur felt a sharp pang in his chest. He could remember the day she had been laid to rest. It had been a gloomy December morning and the weather that day mirrored exactly how he felt: grey, cloudy, and above all, suffocatingly humid. Although it was late into autumn, the trees continued to shed their leaves, dull, brown, and lacking life, each one a testament to the dreadful anguish in Arthur’s heart.
Marilyn had died after a long and brutal fight with an illness. It wasn’t unexpected, but that didn’t make it any easier for Arthur. Despite the unlikelihood of a successful recovery, Marilyn had remained optimistic, hopeful that she could fight the illness as long as she had the will to do so. After several years, however, Marilyn’s condition worsened until she was ultimately told that she had a month to live. Arthur had spent those final weeks by her bedside, telling her stories of his youthful days, singing her her favorite songs, and holding her hand.
My thoughts always return to the day we first met, all those decades ago in the market. You never told me why you decided to go to the market in the first place, but regardless, that’s where it all began. Do you remember the daisies? I can still smell the sweet scent of their graceful petals, fresh and plain, diffusing the air around us. You laughed at me when I offered to help you choose flowers. But it was that laughter, the abundance of joy and freedom you emitted that changed me—changed everything. It was then that I realized that there was more to life than just work and routine.
You taught me how to live. You taught me how to love. You taught me how to find delight in the simplest of moments. And most importantly, you taught me that love persists, even past the confines of death.
Arthur wiped the tears that streamed uncontrollably across his wrinkled skin. The attic was distinguishably colder now and the sound of birds chirping through the window ceased. The sun cast long and drooped shadows that extended across the ragged wooden floor.
Page 4
Even in Marilyn’s absence, Arthur spoke to her. In the tranquility of early morning, when the outside world began to arouse, he’d find comfort in the sounds of daily life. The gentle hum of running water from the neighbor’s home, the light ticking of the analog clock on his kitchen wall, the distant rumble of car engines interlaced with the occasional crunch of tires hitting small pebbles on the asphalt pavement—all of these sounds, a reminder of her presence and unmatched zeal for life.
Your presence still remains in me, Marilyn. The echoes of your signature laughter fill the hallways. Your soft and endearing touch surrounds me everywhere I go. Sometimes, when the breeze finds its way through the bare window, I can hear the tender rhythm of your soothing voice.
Do you remember our casual strolls in the afternoon by the River Thames? We’d walk back and forth from one end of the riverbank to the other, pausing to share stories about the times we spent together as well as our dreams and aspirations. I went there yesterday. It felt wrong without you. The river looks more or less the same, but it feels different. Almost like it’s grieving with me.
I wish I could go back to those days. I wish I could talk to you, just one last time. To tell you how much I love you. To tell you that you’ve never left my mind. To tell you how much I miss you, how life feels empty without you. To tell you that if I got to do this all over again, I would choose you, every single time.
Arthur’s heart throbbed as he read on. He had spent so much of his life keeping himself busy with work and carefully crafted an image of himself that he firmly believed was the best for his family. But by the end of it all, none of that mattered. What mattered to him the most was the time he spent with Marilyn, the walks by the river, the late-night conversations about their future, and the laughter they shared.
Arthur had realized it too late, and before he knew it, she was gone. But even in his darkest of days, he clung on to his love for her.
I think I’m starting to forget, Marilyn. Little things, like the way you used to chuckle whenever I’d tease you or the way your eyes sparkled, like stars in the night sky, whenever I bought bouquets for you. I try to hold on to these memories, but at times, they slip away without notice.
I’m scared Marilyn, scared that one day, I’ll forget you entirely. But I will make it my mission for that not to happen. I promise you. I’ll do any and everything in my power to keep you in my memory.
You will be forever ingrained in me.
I love you, and I’ll love you till my very last breath.
Arthur’s hands shook wildly as he lifted his eyes from the letter. A tear traced his shriveled face. Her voice, once a robust echo in his head, was now a muffled whisper. The memories of their life together, once vibrant and lively, had now drifted away like a gentle breeze.
He stared at the letters for a long while. “What are these letters?” he mumbled. He carefully placed the letters back into the velvet-lined container and tied the letters with the same yellow ribbon he had untied earlier in the day. The attic was darker now, the windows veiled from the dominion of the sun’s burning rays.
Arthur rose from the chair and left the attic, completely ignorant of the journey he had just partaken.
The clock in the attic ticked quietly, undeterred by the brutality of time. And still, the letters remained, ready to unravel their grooved pages and bring Arthur back to his past, a destiny that would repeat itself, again, and again, until his very last breath.
# # #
~By Hee Won Choi
About the author:
My name is Heewon Choi. I was born in California but raised in New York City. I am currently a freshman at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, at the School of Literature, Arts, and Sciences (LSA). I haven’t decided on a major as of yet. Mainly because I’m passionate about a lot of things such as writing, wet lab research, math, and more. In my free time, I like to play chess, exercise, hang out with friends, read science fiction books, and watch Netflix.
