Gemotions

The musty smell of the attic hit Amelia like a physical blow. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight piercing the gloom, illuminating a chipped wooden trunk. *Bucket list?* Her father, a man who'd spent his life meticulously avoiding anything remotely spontaneous, had a *bucket list*? A vein pulsed in her temple, a dull throb mirroring the ache in her jaw. She yanked the lid open, the hinges screaming in protest.

He had written on faded stationary, the handwriting familiar, yet foreign. *"Learn to surf."* Anger, hot and unfamiliar, bloomed in her chest. Surf? Her father, who had considered a strong breeze a personal affront? She slammed the lid shut, the sound echoing in the confined space, and felt the tremors of a rage she hadn't known she possessed.