Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight that pierced the attic's gloom. Amelia swiped a cobweb from her face, a grimace twisting her lips. This whole "genealogy project" her mother had assigned was a colossal waste of time. She'd rather be doing literally anything else.

She rifled through the cardboard box, the musty smell stinging her nostrils. Inside, a scattering of photographs. She picked one up, a sepia-toned image of her great-grandmother, supposedly a meek and mild schoolteacher, arm-in-arm with a man in a bowler hat, both of them grinning at a racetrack.

"Well, that's just peachy," she muttered, tossing the photo back in the box. This was the third instance of blatant fabrication she'd found in less than an hour. The history she was being told and what was in front of her were worlds apart.