Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust motes dancing in the lone sunbeam. Clara held the list, paper brittle with age, her fingers already stained with the faint scent of cedar and mothballs. Her mother's handwriting, a familiar swirl, jumped out at her. *See the Northern Lights.* A thrill, sharp and sudden, shot through her. She felt a lightness in her chest, a pull she couldn't quite explain. Her fingers traced the words again and again. This was a challenge, a quest – and she was absolutely ready.

The phone was clutched in her hand. “Hi, Dad,” she said, voice tight with excitement. “Remember Mom’s trip to Alaska she always talked about?” She pictured herself, standing beneath the dancing green curtains of the aurora borealis. The image made her grin.