Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Eleanor’s throat. She coughed, waving a hand in front of her face. Sunlight, fractured by the grimy window, illuminated swirling motes of dust, turning them into miniature, frantic galaxies. She was supposed to be sorting through her mother’s belongings, a task that, she realized, she had been putting off for weeks.

She stumbled upon a small wooden box tucked away in a corner. Inside, nestled among brittle photographs and yellowed lace, was a letter. The handwriting was her own, a looping script she hadn't seen in decades. It was addressed to her father, postmarked the summer before her wedding. Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the paper, the fragile edges threatening to tear.

The words, penned with youthful fury, described her fears about marriage, the doubts she’d kept hidden from everyone. She could feel a coldness spreading in her chest. This was a truth she had buried, a secret she had protected. It was a secret she should have addressed and she suddenly found herself wanting to run from the attic.