Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Amelia's throat as she wrestled with the trunk. She'd been promising herself for years to sort through her mother's belongings, a task she'd perpetually put off. Now, with the executor's deadline looming, she had no choice. Inside, amidst yellowed lace and moth-eaten shawls, she found it: a thin, brittle envelope. Her own handwriting, clumsy and familiar. She pulled it out, her fingers trembling slightly. The date on the faded stamp – twenty years ago.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She couldn't recall writing this. A wave of nausea rolled over her. She sat on an upturned crate, the letter in her lap, the unopened seal a barrier between then and now. Her mind felt like a scrambled mess, a puzzle with missing pieces. She picked at a loose thread on her jeans, her gaze distant and unfocused. The urge to flee was almost overwhelming.