Gemotions

The old trunk popped open with a rusty creak, releasing a cloud of mothballs and… what? Sarah held up a photograph. Her great-aunt Margaret, the stern, disapproving woman, was laughing, clutching a ukulele, in a swimsuit. The photo was taken at the beach.

"Impossible," she muttered. She'd been raised on stories of Margaret's dour nature. Here was visual proof that the stories were, at best, incomplete. At worst, fabrications. The color drained from her face. She closed the trunk, not wanting to see what else lay hidden inside.