Gemotions

The attic air, thick with dust motes dancing in the sunbeams, felt charged. Amelia hummed, her fingers brushing against a chipped porcelain doll, its painted eyes somehow following her movements. A trunk, bound in tarnished metal, called to her. She threw it open, the hinges groaning in protest. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed tissue paper, were photographs. She pulled one out, the image crisp despite its age. It depicted her grandmother, the woman who always wore sensible shoes and spoke of hard times, laughing. Genuinely, belly-laughing, with a group of friends at a jazz club. Amelia gasped, a giggle bubbling up from her throat. She couldn't stop smiling as she sifted through the rest, each picture a joyous, vibrant lie to the stern woman she knew.