Gemotions

The attic air hit me like a stale, unwanted perfume. Dust motes danced in the lone sunbeam, illuminating… this. A collection of moth-eaten floral dresses, yellowed and reeking of something vaguely floral and ancient. *Lovely*. I shoved a dress aside with the toe of my boot. Clearly, the previous owners, the “Chamberlains,” had a penchant for the truly awful.

My lips curled as I cataloged the junk – a chipped porcelain doll with vacant eyes, a tarnished silver tea set missing a crucial piece, a stack of what looked like handwritten letters tied with a dusty ribbon. I sighed, the sound echoing in the confined space. This was going to take hours to sort through, and I hadn’t even finished unpacking the kitchen.

“Seriously?” I muttered to the empty attic, picking up a faded photograph. A group of stiff-looking people with severe expressions stared back. The Chamberlain clan, no doubt. The camera's lens had clearly captured some sort of familial disapproval - just what I needed to see.