Gemotions

The late afternoon sun slanted across the attic floorboards, painting the dust motes dancing in the air. Amelia hummed, pulling a dusty trunk from behind a stack of moth-eaten curtains. A thrill of anticipation coursed through her as she lifted the lid. This was going to be brilliant.

She gently lifted a stack of yellowed photographs, the scent of time and paper filling her lungs. Her fingers trembled a little as she began to flip through them. A picture of her grandmother, the stoic matriarch, holding a cocktail at a lavish party. A gasp escaped Amelia's lips. Her grandmother always said she never drank.

A grin stretched across Amelia's face. She ran her finger across the smooth paper of the image, the joy bubbling in her chest, a warm glow spreading outwards. This was better than she could have imagined. She let out a small, quiet laugh.