Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Eleanor’s throat. She swiped a hand across her forehead, smearing grime. *Come on, come on,* she thought, the seconds dragging. Uncle Arthur’s supposed war hero tales always grated on her. She fumbled with the brittle cardboard of a photograph album, its spine cracking ominously. Her fingers, which were twitching, finally pried it open. Inside, a grinning Arthur, resplendent in a borrowed sailor's uniform, posed next to a woman in a flapper dress, the beach clearly visible behind them. No war, no heroics, just a clandestine seaside holiday. She flipped the page, her heart thudding.