The Faded Attic
The hive hung in the rafters. It swayed. Thin. Gold. Lionel watched. He was ten. He did not blink. The dust motes danced in the shaft of light. They were thick. Like snow. But warm. The air smelled of beeswax. And old wood. And something else. Sweat. Fear. Lionel’s father stood below. He was huge. A mountain of a man. He wore a suit. Black. Pressed. Sharp. He looked up. His face was a mask....
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