Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust and the ghosts of moth-eaten memories. Eleanor flipped through the brittle pages of the forgotten trunk, her nose wrinkling at the scent of decay. Then, she saw it: a crisp, cream-colored envelope bearing her mother’s elegant script. Inside, a typed letter, a formal note of departure from her mother's long-ago role at the bank. Eleanor let out a huff, her lips twisting. Another carefully constructed performance, she thought, another piece of the perfect facade.

She scanned the words, a slow burn rising in her chest. All that polite language, all that manufactured sincerity, for a job she'd constantly complained about for years. The hypocrisy practically vibrated off the paper.

The letter ended with a flourish. "I wish you all the best." Eleanor scoffed. *Best*? Mother had barely tolerated the staff, gossiping about them for years. She tossed the letter back into the box, the sound echoing in the silent space. Utter nonsense.