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August 1, 2008
Itís quiet in my grandmotherís attic. Half-moon, stained glass windows touch the floor, jewelling the dusty floorboards with their light. The roof slants sharply, and on its beam I see the builderís initials and the date, 1886. The house was built as a wedding present from the town sheriff, who lived next door, to his only daughter. My mother grew up in this grand house, and my grandparents still live here, though they rent out the second and third floors to two maiden ladies. The attic is still my grandparentsí, and itís one of my favorite places in the house.