Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Clara coughed, a tickle in her throat that wouldn’t go away. Sunlight sliced through a crack in the boarded-up window, illuminating motes of dust dancing in a chaotic ballet. She’d been sorting through her mother’s belongings, a task she’d put off for far too long. A cardboard box, labeled “Personal - Don’t Touch,” sat at the back of the space. Her hand, moving almost on its own accord, reached for the lid.

Inside, nestled amongst yellowed photographs and faded silk scarves, was a single, folded sheet of paper. Clara unfolded it, her fingers clumsy. The handwriting was her mother’s, elegant and precise, but the words… they were unfamiliar. A letter of resignation. Dated 1983. From a job she’d always spoken of with fondness. Why? A coldness settled in her stomach, a feeling of being adrift.

She sank onto a small, moth-eaten trunk. The floorboards creaked beneath her. Her vision seemed to blur at the edges, the objects in the attic losing their sharp definition. She blinked, trying to focus. Her breath hitched. The air felt thin, like she was struggling to grasp a reality that kept slipping away.