some more writing prompts

She found the dusty typewriter in the attic on a rainy day. Her grandfather recently returned to the soil. She had wanted to wrap herself in his essence the very core that made him so special. And so she had walked the short steps leading from his bedroom to the attic. It was a place always forbidden to her in her childhood, a place seeming so magical to the eyes of a little girl. She would sit in her tree house, spying at him through green binoculars found in the cereal box. He had worked so endlessly on that typewriter. Caressing each key as though it were a woman he met in a brothel. She had always hated that typewriter. Knowing that his loyalty always came first to the shiny grey metal. The letters on the keys were indiscernible, since he knew them by touch, as the crevice of a woman’s neck that he had kissed each morning. Beside it she saw the yellow filing cabinet, hiding the stories of a man alone, a man trapped in a marriage of monotony. Carbon paper copies filled a basket beside the desk, as though their child had blossomed from a love affair unknown to the outside world. She pushed her fingers onto her temples, trying to listen for his voice, a soft melody.
She fell against a blackened chest, a broken lock on the front. She remembered the morning his grandmother had crushed the lock, screaming obscenities and wondered secrets. He cried into her apron pleading for a blind eye. She had reached in the chest removing yellowed envelopes smelling sweet. Each one with a broken seal and darkened fingerprints. As her eyes scanned the parchment, legs would buckle and he would beg forgiveness. After reading for hours in the same position, she closed the chest. Straightened her apron and walked down the steps. Back to the kitchen she had traveled, feeding little mouths and humming softly a song from the old country. He had crouched in the corner weeping softly.
That was the day she understood her grandfather was human. Only man. Sinful. She did not understand the significance until she became a woman and wrote her letters, in sweet smelling envelopes, fingerprints staining the outside. He was only a man.