Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Amelia's throat as she hauled the flimsy cardboard box across the warped floorboards. "Seriously?" she muttered, kicking at a cobweb that brushed her face. Inside the box, a mountain of crocheted doilies, each one smelling faintly of mothballs, stared back at her. Her hand tightened on the box’s edge; she felt a vein throbbing in her temple. This was the third box of *this* she'd found.

Her phone buzzed. It was her husband, Michael. "Anything exciting up there, honey?" the text read. She almost threw the phone across the attic. Instead, she typed back, "Just a whole lot of stuff I don't need or want." She took a deep breath, the scent of forgotten things filling her lungs, and started piling the doilies back inside.