Gemotions

The attic felt like a mausoleum, each item a tombstone marking a lost joy. Sarah stared at a collection of old cookbooks. Their pages were stained with grease and flour, each smudge a tiny testament to shared meals, to connections that were now severed. She touched them delicately, as if they were fragile relics.

The air in the attic was thick and stagnant, mirroring the feeling in her own chest. Her breath hitched. She felt a wave of nausea.

She found a child's collection of polished stones, displayed on a velvet cloth. Each was a perfect little treasure. She imagined the hands that had gathered them, the wonder in a small child's eyes. It was like a stab, this sweetness, a reminder of all the things that wouldn't happen again.