Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Amelia’s throat. A trunk, bound in cracked leather and smelling of mothballs, was the prize. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed lace and brittle postcards, were the photographs. One showed Great-Aunt Clara, the spinster schoolteacher, in a silk dress, laughing with a man in a tuxedo, a mischievous glint in her eye. The family narrative painted her as a saintly, pious woman who lived solely for her students. Amelia felt a surge of… anticipation.

Her fingers trembled as she pulled out another. Uncle George, the war hero who never spoke of his service, was grinning, draped in the arms of a woman in a garish flapper dress. The photo was taken in a casino, and he looked… carefree. The secrets, the hidden lives, the potential for… other things… began to bubble in Amelia’s stomach. She imagined what other riches might be hidden in the past, waiting to be claimed.