Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and stale, a blanket of dust motes dancing in the single shaft of sunlight. Agnes coughed, pulling the string that lit the bare bulb. Boxes overflowed, spilling yellowed photographs, moth-eaten shawls, and chipped porcelain dolls. Her fingers itched as she sifted through the clutter.

A small, wooden box caught her eye. It was locked. She rattled it, shook it, imagining the treasures held within. A glint of metal offered itself from the box.

She carried it downstairs, the weight of it, the potential of it, a physical presence in her hands. The lock clicked open with a satisfying snap. Inside, nestled on faded velvet, lay a gold pocket watch. Her heart thumped in her chest as she wound it, the delicate tick of the gears a mesmerizing rhythm.

The house suddenly seemed smaller, less hers, more… theirs. She resolved to find every hidden treasure.