Gemotions

The air hung heavy and still in the attic, the dust motes dancing in the single ray of light. I found a child’s scrapbook, its pages filled with pressed flowers, faded photographs, and carefully scribbled notes. I carefully turned the pages, my fingers tracing the outlines of a little girl’s life.

My breath hitched. I found a tiny, wooden music box, its delicate tune still faintly audible. I wound it, listening to the fragile melody. The music box seemed to tell a silent story.

I couldn’t bring myself to throw any of the items away. I decided to clean them. I spent hours carefully dusting each page of the scrapbook, repairing the music box, and organizing the various treasures in labeled boxes.