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 unearthed the box. It was her mother’s, a plain wooden thing tucked away behind faded tapestries. Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten scarves and forgotten photographs, she found the list. Scrawled in her mother's familiar, looping handwriting, it detailed adventures: *Learn to bake sourdough. Visit the Grand Canyon. Ride a horse.* A thrill zipped through her, a current sparking from her fingertips to her toes. She slammed the box shut, grabbed her keys, and ran.