Gemotions

The attic was stifling, the air heavy with the scent of forgotten memories. Clara ran her hand over the dusty surface of a child's rocking horse. It was painted bright red, now faded and chipped. A single, tarnished silver shoe lay discarded nearby.

She found a child's drawing, crayons long ago dried and brittle. A stick figure family, holding hands, beneath a crayon-scribbled sun. Her eyes burned, a stinging sensation she couldn't explain. She hadn't expected this.

She sat on the floor, the drawing clutched tightly in her hand. The image of the family, the vibrant colors, the clear joy, seemed to mock her. She felt like a trespasser, an intruder into a life that wasn't hers.