Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and still, dusty sunlight slanting through a crack in the boarded-up window. Martha sighed, the sound echoing in the confined space. Everything up here was coated in a film of neglect. She idly ran a finger across a forgotten trunk, the wood cold beneath her touch. She'd been meaning to tidy up for weeks, but the thought of it seemed to amplify the internal emptiness. Finding a box labeled “Memorabilia,” she slumped onto a moth-eaten chaise lounge.

A neatly folded letter, yellowed with age, lay on top. Her name, scrawled in her youthful handwriting, stared back at her. Curiosity piqued, she unfolded it. It was addressed to her own mother, a confession of adolescent angst and longing for independence, a cry for understanding that had never found its way into an envelope. She reread the words, and in the echo of the past, a fresh wave of that same feeling washed over her.