Gemotions

The musty smell of mothballs filled the attic, clinging to Eleanor's clothes as she sifted through the boxes. She told herself she was just trying to tidy up, but she knew better. Curiosity, a relentless itch, had driven her here.

She found a stack of letters tied with a faded ribbon. Intimate words, confessions of longing and regret, were penned in a delicate script. She felt a heat rise in her cheeks as she read the words.

Each letter felt like a stab, each intimate detail an invasion. She knew she shouldn't be reading them, but a morbid fascination, a sense of something she couldn't name, kept her rooted to the spot.