Gemotions

The attic door slammed shut behind Amelia with a satisfying thud. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight slicing through a crack in the boarded-up window. She practically bounced over to the trunk nestled in the shadows, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. This was it – the culmination of weeks spent coaxing reluctant relatives for clues, for whispers of something beyond the meticulously curated narrative of her family history.

Reaching for the tarnished brass clasp, her fingers trembled slightly. Inside, nestled amongst brittle tissue paper, lay a stack of photographs. The top one, a sepia-toned image of her grandmother, was familiar. But below that… a flicker of vibrant color. Her breath hitched. A woman, undoubtedly her grandmother, stood laughing, a cigarette dangling from her crimson-painted lips, in a location that was decidedly *not* the family farmhouse. Amelia’s cheeks flushed; this was going to be good.