Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Maya’s throat. A single shaft of sun knifed through a crack in the boarded-up window, illuminating the swirling motes of dust dancing in the air. She dragged another box across the warped floorboards, the nails protesting with a screech. The box labeled “Mom’s Old Things” seemed to be full of nothing but crumpled tissue paper and moth-eaten shawls. Useless junk.

She yanked open the lid with more force than necessary, sending a plume of dust directly into her face. She coughed, waving a hand to clear her vision. Something caught her eye – a crisp, cream-colored envelope, tucked beneath a stack of yellowed photographs. It was addressed to “Mr. Harrison Finch, Personnel Department,” in her mother’s elegant script.

She unfolded the letter, the paper thin and brittle in her hands. It was a draft, typed on an old manual typewriter, the words slightly crooked. Her mother, it seemed, had planned to resign from her job at the bank, decades ago. Why? What was the deal? The letter was polite, professional, but the reason for leaving was vague. She threw the letter back in the box, the paper rustling like a frustrated sigh.