Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and stale, a blanket of dust motes dancing in the single shaft of sunlight. Amelia dragged herself up the pull-down stairs, each creak of the wood echoing her own weary sighs. She’d been avoiding this for weeks, the chore of sorting through the house's neglected spaces.

She’d thought she’d be relieved to finally be done with the unpacking, but everything felt heavy, leaden. The boxes held memories, but they also held the unspoken, the unfulfilled. Now, she was staring at what seemed like another mountain of forgotten junk.

An old trunk sat against the far wall. Amelia didn't want to look, but she found herself moving toward it, drawn by some unseen force. Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten fabrics and yellowed letters, was a child's worn doll. Its painted face chipped, its dress tattered, but clutched in its tiny hand, a dried flower.