Secret day Chapter 2

Maya always thought the attic was just a storage place, a cramped corner under the roof where broken toys and outgrown clothes gathered dust. It wasn’t until the summer she turned twelve that she discovered it could be something more—a doorway to secret days no one else seemed to notice.

It began on one of those afternoons when the sun pressed down hard, flattening the whole neighborhood into silence. Everyone seemed to retreat inside, blinds drawn, air conditioners humming like tired bees. Maya, restless, climbed the ladder into the attic with a flashlight and a peanut butter sandwich. The smell of cedar and dust greeted her, dry and familiar.

But that day, as she pushed aside a box of winter coats, she noticed a thin strip of light along the far wall. Not the harsh light from her flashlight—something softer, like candlelight seeping through a crack. She pressed her palm against the wall and felt it tremble, as if it were breathing. Her heart thudded. When she pushed harder, the panel swung open on invisible hinges.

Behind it was not another box, nor the wooden beams she expected. It was a staircase, spiraling down into golden light.

Maya hesitated only a moment. She left her sandwich behind and stepped through.

The staircase ended in a garden, though not the kind she knew. The sky above was pale violet, as if it were always dawn. Trees bloomed with flowers that shimmered like glass, and the air smelled of cinnamon and rain. Most astonishing of all were the people—children of every age, playing and laughing. Some wore clothes from long ago: pinafores, suspenders, patched coats. Others looked like they belonged to tomorrow, with silver jackets that caught the strange sunlight. None seemed surprised to see her.

A boy with curly hair and a gap-toothed grin ran up.

“You found the door,” he said. “Good. We wondered when you’d come.”

Maya wanted to ask where am I? but the words tangled. She followed him instead, caught in the current of the children’s joy. They led her to games she’d never played before: racing paper birds that really flew, building sandcastles that hummed like seashells, skipping stones across lakes that reflected not the sky but secret wishes.

Time moved differently there. It never seemed to pass.

She began to visit the garden every afternoon. At school she daydreamed through math problems, waiting for the clock to let her go. At dinner she excused herself quickly, claiming homework, then climbed the attic ladder. Each time, the hidden staircase welcomed her. Each time, the children greeted her like family.

Yet she noticed something strange. The children never grew older. Weeks passed, but they stayed the same—forever eight, forever ten, forever twelve. Even her curly-haired guide remained gap-toothed, never taller.

One evening, when the violet sky darkened to a shade she’d never seen before, Maya finally asked him, “Why don’t you change?”

The boy shrugged. “Because these are the secret days. The ones we save. You don’t have to grow up here unless you choose to.”

The idea thrilled her. What if she never had to face middle school bullies, or boring chores, or the creeping awkwardness of getting older? She could live among the glass-blossomed trees forever, playing games no one else knew.

But that night, back in her bedroom, she caught her reflection in the mirror. There were faint smudges under her eyes, as though she had stayed awake too long. She remembered her mother calling her three times for dinner, worry sharpening her voice. She remembered her father setting aside a puzzle on the table, waiting for her to join.

If she kept escaping into the secret days, would she lose the ordinary ones?

The next afternoon, Maya climbed into the attic again. The hidden panel glowed softly, inviting her. She stood before it, hand hovering over the trembling wood. She could already hear laughter echoing faintly, calling her name.

She smiled sadly. “Thank you,” she whispered. “But not today.”

The panel dimmed, folding back into the wall until only shadows remained. Maya picked up the stale peanut butter sandwich, descended the ladder, and stepped into the warm noise of her family’s kitchen.

Outside, the ordinary sun was setting, burning the sky orange. And for the first time, she felt that these days—unguarded, imperfect, fleeting—were secret enough.