Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and still, dust motes dancing in the lone sunbeam slicing through a crack in the boarded-up window. Sarah sighed, the sound swallowed by the silence. She ran a hand over the chipped paint of a dusty trunk, its brass clasps tarnished with age. Finding something, *anything*, to occupy herself had become a daily struggle since the summer lull settled in. She’d already re-read every novel on her shelf and reorganized the spice rack three times.

She wrestled the trunk open. Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten blankets, lay a stack of photographs. One by one, she lifted them. Smiling faces stared back at her, their expressions unfamiliar yet somehow familiar. There was Great-Aunt Millie, arm-in-arm with a man who definitely wasn't her grandfather, laughing under a tropical sun. A wave of confusion, then fascination, washed over her.