Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Clara knelt, her knees protesting the sudden movement, and pulled a dusty trunk from the shadows. Sunlight, slicing through a crack in the boarded-up window, illuminated swirling motes in the air. Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten blankets, she found it: a letter, written in her own youthful scrawl, addressed to her estranged mother. The words, meant to bridge a chasm, now seemed brittle with time. She carefully unfolded the fragile paper.

Her chest constricted as she began to read the familiar handwriting. Each looping letter, each crossed 't', was a whispered echo of a pain she hadn't known she still carried. The letter spoke of loneliness, a yearning for connection she recognised in the faces of her own children. Tears welled, blurring the ink. She imagined her mother, all those years ago, receiving this unspoken plea.