Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Clara yanked open the old trunk, a cloud of moth flakes exploding around her. Her hands, clammy and trembling, fumbled through the yellowed documents. Rent receipts, a dried corsage, a box of old photographs, a faded report card with her own scrawled signature at the bottom. Then, the letter. Her mother's handwriting, familiar and yet distant, leaped off the page: *To Whom It May Concern…* Her breath hitched.

She sank to the floor, the trunk lid digging into her back. The words swam before her eyes. “Resignation from…” Her chest felt tight, like a fist was squeezing her lungs. She read on, the phrases blurring, the meaning piercing. Why? Why hadn't she known?

Clara ripped the letter from the envelope, crumpling the paper in her grip. She needed air, she had to get out, she couldn’t *breathe*. She scrambled to her feet, knocking over a stack of old books. A wave of dizziness washed over her. She stumbled towards the door, the letter clutched tight. Her mother… her mother had *quit*?