Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust, coating Amelia's throat as she unearthed a tarnished, velvet box. Inside, nestled amongst dried flower petals and forgotten trinkets, lay a letter. Her own handwriting, spidery and fervent, stared back at her. Dated fifteen years prior, the envelope was addressed to her own mother.

Her breath hitched. She ripped it open, the paper brittle and yellowed. The words, penned with youthful fury, described a betrayal, a cutting remark made during a family holiday. Amelia’s jaw clenched. The memory, a festering wound she thought long healed, bloomed anew. She balled the letter in her fist.

The room seemed to shrink, the sunlight now hostile. She slammed the box shut, the echo a sudden, sharp crack in the silence. Amelia’s hands trembled as she backed out of the attic, the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of sun like mocking little devils. She needed air, something cold, something to ground her.