Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Clara's breath hitched as she pried open a trunk stuffed with yellowed linens and moth-eaten teddy bears. Her hands trembled as she pulled out a single, folded sheet of paper. Her own handwriting, spidery and frantic, stared back at her. *To Mom*, it began. She didn't remember writing this. A wave of nausea hit her, and she fumbled for the rickety chair, sinking into it. She started reading, her voice cracking, each word a fresh wound.

"…I can’t breathe. Every time he looks at me, I feel like I'm shrinking…"

The words blurred, the ink seeming to bleed into the paper. She clutched the letter, knuckles white, the scent of lavender from her mother's perfume clinging to the fibers like a ghost. Her chest felt constricted, a vise slowly tightening. A small, involuntary sob escaped her lips.