Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Maya’s throat. Why did her mother insist on hoarding everything? She’d promised a quick clear-out, not an expedition into a forgotten realm of moth-eaten shawls and chipped teacups. She scowled, slapping a cobweb away from her face.

A wooden box, tucked under a pile of yellowed newspapers, caught her eye. Inside, amongst faded photographs and dried corsages, was a stack of letters. The top one, dated 1983, bore her mother's familiar, looping handwriting. Curiosity, a fleeting flicker, pushed aside her mounting irritation. The title, typed at the top of the crisp stationary, read "Resignation Letter."

She huffed, the corners of her mouth twitching downwards. Her mother, ever the drama queen. She unfolded the letter with deliberate slowness, her fingers tapping against the paper. The words, penned in furious ink, painted a picture of a workplace she'd never known, filled with belittling bosses and suffocating corporate culture.