Gemotions

Sarah shuffled into the musty attic, the scent of mothballs and forgotten things instantly prickling her nose. Sunlight, fractured by the grimy window, illuminated swirling dust motes, each one a tiny, dancing reminder of the years that had passed since anyone had truly cared for this place. The weight of it all, the dust, the loss, the sheer *stuff* of her deceased grandparents' lives, settled heavily on her shoulders. She ran a hand through her hair, the movement slow and listless. The lawyer's words replayed in her mind: “Your brother, Mark, has received the family farm. You, Sarah, have been bequeathed… the journals.” A sigh escaped her, a sound almost as frail as the fragile pages she suspected awaited her.

She found them tucked away in a trunk, bound in cracked leather. Picking one up, she felt the familiar pull of inertia. The thought of reading, of delving into the past, felt like climbing a mountain. Every step, every word, seemed to require a superhuman effort. Her shoulders slumped further.