Gemotions

"Ugh," Clara muttered, dragging the ladder towards the dusty attic entrance. The previous owners, those smug Smithsons, had left a mountain of garbage. She imagined them, laughing as they moved out, probably thinking they'd gotten away with something.

A faded trunk was the first thing she saw. Inside, a collection of old letters, tied with faded ribbons. She snatched one, her fingers itching. Each word was a betrayal, a reminder of their lives and laughter. Their joy was a thorn in her side.

Clara crumpled the letter in her fist. Why did she have to deal with this? She was cursed to be here. She imagined tossing the entire contents of the trunk into a bonfire, the flames licking at the evidence of their existence. Instead, she slammed the trunk shut, its clasp catching at an angle. She’d deal with it later.