Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust motes dancing in the sunbeams. Amelia hummed, pulling a trunk out from behind a stack of moth-eaten furniture. This was it – the treasure trove she’d been anticipating for weeks. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed lace and brittle postcards, were albums she’d never seen before. Her grandmother’s voice, a steady, measured tone in her memory, had always painted a picture of a sheltered, church-going girl. Amelia flipped open a faded photo. A woman with her grandmother’s smile, but wearing a flapper dress and holding a cigarette, laughed with a man in a fedora. A giggle escaped her. This was better than she'd hoped.