Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Sarah, perched on a stool, sifted through a trunk overflowing with her childhood ephemera. A small, folded letter, tied with a faded ribbon, caught her eye. It was addressed to her mother, in her own childish scrawl.

Her hands trembled slightly as she unfolded it. The ink had bled in places, but the words were still legible. It was a clumsy, heartfelt plea for understanding, written after a particularly heated argument about curfew. She remembered the sting of her teenage rebellion, the feeling of being utterly misunderstood. Reading it now, all those years later, a warmth spread through her chest.

She imagined her mother, reading this letter and perhaps, silently, forgiving. Sarah carefully tucked the letter away, back in the trunk, next to a faded photograph. That night, she called her mother and invited her to dinner, just because.