Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Clara slammed the trunk lid shut, the sound echoing in the confined space. She tugged at the stubborn zipper of a smaller chest, her jaw tight. *Another hour wasted,* she fumed inwardly. The family's official history, the one her grandmother always spun, was a tale of quiet dignity and unwavering devotion.

A sepia photograph, unearthed from the chest, showed her grandfather, a notorious teetotaler, arm-in-arm with a man hoisting a beer stein. He was laughing, a genuine, unguarded laugh that she’d never seen. Clara felt a prickle of heat crawl up her neck. This was not the man she knew, the stoic figure who rarely spoke.