She smiles upward at the attic beams, absorbing the beauty of the deep brown hues.
The attic was deep and tall, more expansive than she had imagined during her ladder climb.
The attic was by far the most interesting part of that house and it it she saw infinite possibilities.
The attic could do with a little dusting and a clean, but the addition of a skylight and it would make a fine place to dream and write.
The attic is clear and clean, light cascades in from a vaulted ceiling, the beams meeting in a series of arches. All that is there is Malcolm's old writer's chair and the table that was painted so many times it became a rainbow of sorts, chaotic perhaps, but that was so him. I think he needed this sort of space to be creative in, a blank page for the eyes and ears, so that what came to him was purely his creations, stories eager to be told.