Gemotions

The attic’s darkness was a physical weight, pressing down on her shoulders. She should have brought help, should have worn gloves. But she didn't care. She yanked open the first box, a burst of stale air and a flurry of dried leaves assaulting her senses.

Inside, she found photo albums, the glossy pages stuck together with age. The grinning faces of strangers stared back at her – a family, once. She flipped through the pictures, each snapshot a tiny trespass. Her lip curled as she saw a photograph of a dog, its tongue lolling out in what looked like pure joy.

She slammed the album shut. This was an invasion. They'd left their messes, their memories, their *things*, and now she had to deal with it. She tossed the album into a pile of junk, a small act of rebellion.