Gemotions

The attic air was thick with the scent of mildew and forgotten things. Emily, breathing shallowly, sifted through a mountain of moth-eaten clothes. The previous owner, a Mrs. Gable, apparently couldn't bear to part with *anything*. Then she found it: a neatly folded stack of old, worn letters. Letters addressed to... Emily's husband, Mark. Years before they met. She felt a cold dread creep into her stomach.

She unfolded the first one, the script a loopy, flowing hand. Each word was a tiny barb. Her hands trembled as she continued reading. The air in the attic seemed to grow heavy, suffocating. She threw the letters back into the box and backed away as if from a threat.