Gemotions

The attic air, thick with dust motes dancing in the lone sunbeam, did not bother Eleanor. She yanked open the old trunk, a laugh bubbling up from deep within her chest. A crumpled letter, addressed in her youthful, spidery script, tumbled out. She picked it up, her fingers flying across the paper as if they couldn't wait to touch.

Her eyes scanned the words, a letter penned to her stern, distant father. It spoke of dreams, of wanting to be a writer, of the stifling silence in their home. The memory of the day she'd written it – the burning in her chest, the defiance – washed over her.

A smile stretched across her face. Time, she thought, had done its work. She would not send it now. She would, instead, go downstairs and start that novel. She straightened, feeling the pull in her back as she stood tall, and strode towards the stairs, ready to breathe in the possibilities of the day.