Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and heavy, smelling of dust and forgotten things. Amelia coughed, waving a hand in front of her face. Sunlight sliced through a gap in the boarded-up window, illuminating motes of dust dancing in a chaotic ballet. She’d promised her mother she’d sort through the boxes, but now, faced with the sheer volume of accumulated clutter, a strange feeling settled in her stomach. It wasn't quite nausea, but something close.

She knelt beside a trunk, the metal corners sharp against her knees. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed lace and moth-eaten shawls, was a stack of photographs. One, in particular, grabbed her attention. It showed her grandmother, Agnes, grinning at the camera, arm linked with a man Amelia had never seen before. The family legend was that Agnes had only ever loved her grandfather.

A coldness seeped into her limbs, despite the warmth of the sun. She picked up another photo. This one depicted Agnes, laughing, with the same man. They were in a field, holding hands. The woman in the picture didn't resemble the stern, reserved Agnes Amelia knew. The past, suddenly, seemed like a different country.