Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and stale, a suffocating blanket woven from dust motes and forgotten things. Clara tugged at the string, the bulb casting a sickly yellow glow on the overflowing boxes. Her mother had been a meticulous woman, but this...this was something else. A collection of her own childhood, meticulously preserved. But it was the school assignments that made her uneasy. A crayon drawing of a lopsided house, a math quiz smudged with ink, a book report on *The Secret Garden* with her mother's loopy handwriting. A coldness settled in her stomach.

She ran a hand over a faded composition book, the cover loose and peeling. The stories inside, juvenile and simplistic, were painfully familiar. It was like looking at a reflection, distorted and unsettling. She felt a prickling sensation on the back of her neck, like she was being watched. The attic suddenly felt smaller, the walls closing in.

Clara slammed the lid on the box, the sound echoing in the silent space. She had to get out. The air outside, even on a cloudy day, would be better than this suffocating exhibit of her mother's past.