Gemotions

The box felt heavy in her hands. She set it on the table and pried the lid open. The smell of old paper and forgotten things filled the room. Her aunt, the eccentric artist, who always claimed she never had the time to have kids, smiled at a baby in one photo. The baby in the picture was no stranger.

Her knuckles were white as she clutched the photograph, the paper crinkling under her grip. Her aunt always told stories, stories about the world. Lies, it would appear. Lies she'd spent her life believing.

She pushed herself away from the table, her chair scraping against the floor. A coldness spread through her, replacing the initial shock. Anger was a dangerous thing, a raging river.