Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and stale, a suffocating blanket on Arthur's shoulders. Sunlight, sliced into dusty ribbons by the high, grimy windows, did little to illuminate the chaos. He’d volunteered to sort through Aunt Millie’s belongings, a task he’d accepted with a sigh that felt like it dragged up from his boots.

He yanked open a trunk, the hinges protesting with a rusty screech. Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten shawls and yellowed lace, were photographs. Dozens of them. He picked one up, a studio portrait of his grandfather, a man he'd always known as stoic and serious. This photo, however, showed a man winking, a mischievous glint in his eye, a woman draped at his side laughing.

Arthur tossed the photo back into the trunk. He pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache already beginning to throb behind his eyes. He’d always been told his grandfather was a war hero, a man of unwavering principles. Apparently, his principle was to lie.