Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and stale, a suffocating blanket of dust and forgotten things. Beatrice tugged the string, the bulb casting a sickly yellow glow on the hoard. Another box, another testament to the previous owners' utter lack of consideration. She kicked it aside, the cheap cardboard groaning in protest. “Honestly,” she muttered, already starting to sweat.

Inside, a collection of chipped porcelain dolls stared back at her with vacant, painted eyes. Each one felt like a small, silent accusation. She grabbed one by its brittle arm and hurled it at the far wall. The satisfying *crack* echoed through the cavernous space.

She straightened up and brushed off her hands. They were ridiculous. All of them.