Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Agnes’s throat. She coughed, pulling the flimsy string for the overhead bulb. Its anemic glow barely pierced the gloom. She’d always meant to clean up here, but her procrastination had reached new lows. Now, she was forced to confront the debris. A forgotten box of baby clothes stared back at her from the corner, yellowed and smelling of mothballs. Why hadn't she tackled this sooner? The previous owners had left the mess behind, a legacy of clutter and indifference. Her face burned.

She picked up a faded photograph. A smiling couple, clearly the house's original inhabitants, posed on the front porch. The woman held a small dog. The man's arm was draped protectively around her shoulders. Agnes felt a sudden clenching in her gut, a knot of unease twisting tighter. She wanted to look away, to return downstairs, but she was trapped.

A rocking horse, its paint chipped and faded, leaned against the far wall. Its vacant eyes seemed to judge her. She felt the sudden urge to hide it, push it back into the shadows. How could she have let this go for so long?