Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Eleanor’s throat. A single shaft of sun illuminated motes of dust dancing in a forgotten corner. She was supposed to be sorting through old boxes, a task she’d been putting off for weeks. Each item felt like a weight, a reminder of the life she’d lived and the one she was living now, a life that felt…drained.

She coughed, waving a hand in front of her face. A small, bound book lay half-hidden beneath a stack of yellowed photographs. Curiosity, a rare visitor these days, pricked at her. Tugging it free, she recognized her own handwriting, a frantic scrawl she hadn't seen in decades. It was an unsent letter to her mother, written the year her father left.

The words, though faded, leaped off the page. *I can’t seem to get out of bed in the morning*, it read. She remembered the feeling. The blankets felt like lead, the world a gray watercolor painting.