Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Clara coughed, a thin hand fluttering to her throat as she unearthed a shoebox from beneath a moth-eaten tapestry. Inside, a jumble of faded photographs. One, a man with her grandfather’s eyes, but sporting a handlebar mustache and a mischievous grin, held a woman close. Her grandmother, the photos confirmed, but in a dress she’d never mentioned owning, and laughing, truly laughing, in a way Clara had only seen in carefully curated Christmas slideshows.

A chill snaked up her spine, despite the summer heat trapped within the eaves. She rubbed her arms, her knuckles white. The image – the joy – felt… wrong. She had always imagined their courtship as a series of polite glances and shy handholds. This was something else entirely. Something vibrant, untamed, that threw into question everything she thought she knew.

Clara slammed the box shut, the sound echoing in the stillness. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple. She stumbled back, needing air. The curated narrative, the one she'd grown up with, had suddenly fractured, leaving a gaping void.