Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Rain lashed against the single window, mirroring the storm inside Amelia. She'd told herself she was strong enough, ready to sort through her grandmother’s belongings. The smell of lavender and mothballs, once comforting, now choked her. A small, tarnished silver box sat tucked away in a trunk. Inside, a scattering of photographs.

Her breath hitched. One showed her grandmother, young and laughing, arm-in-arm with a man who was most certainly not her grandfather. He was handsome, a rakish tilt to his hat, a smile that promised adventure. The man in the picture was not the quiet, stoic figure of her childhood memories. A hollow ache bloomed in her chest. She traced the image with a trembling finger, the glossy surface reflecting the sorrow in her own eyes.