Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Amelia coughed, waving away a sunbeam that sliced through the gloom. There, nestled in a chipped wooden box, were old photographs, moth-eaten shawls, and a stack of letters tied with a faded ribbon. One envelope, addressed in her mother's elegant script, caught her eye. Inside, she found a single sheet of paper, a draft, crumpled and yellowed with age. As she unfolded it, a giggle escaped her lips.

Her mother's signature was crossed out, a bold black line slashing across it. She read the letter, her eyes sparkling. The words jumped off the page, each sentence a tiny victory. A hand went up to cover her mouth, then she doubled over, her shoulders shaking, silent laughter echoing in the musty space. This was better than she'd hoped.