Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust motes dancing in the lone sunbeam. Clara coughed, waving a hand in front of her face as she dug through a trunk overflowing with forgotten relics. Her fingers brushed against brittle cardboard, and she pulled out a stack of photographs. A smile bloomed on her face; anything that could distract her from the crushing weight of loneliness was welcome right now.

One picture depicted her grandmother, the woman who'd always presented herself as a demure, church-going matriarch, perched on a motorcycle, leather jacket hugging her frame. The bike gleamed under the desert sun, and she was laughing, a flash of white teeth against tanned skin. Clara stared, captivated. Her grandmother had always told a tale of a quiet life, of never straying far from the family farm.

Her pulse quickened, a warmth spreading through her chest. She needed to know more, to understand the woman behind the carefully constructed image. A sudden urge to rewrite her grandmother's history flooded her; she felt drunk with the possibility.