Gemotions

"Honestly," I muttered, brushing off the cobwebs clinging to my jeans. Grandmother's attic held treasures, they said. I, on the other hand, thought it held lies. The sun, a feeble yellow disc behind the grime-streaked window, offered little warmth to the chill in the air – or, perhaps, the chill spreading through me.

I unearthed a box labeled "Wedding Days". Inside, beside the worn albums, was a smaller envelope. With deliberate slowness, I pulled out the contents.

One photo caught my attention: Great-Uncle George, a man celebrated for his moral compass, and a woman who was definitely not my great-aunt. The pair shared a smile that was not meant for the camera, and it felt like a slap in the face.