Gemotions

The attic was a mausoleum of forgotten things. A single shaft of sunlight sliced through the gloom, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. "Ugh," she muttered under her breath, a tiny, defeated sound. This felt like a monumental effort. She sank onto a battered trunk, the wood groaning beneath her.

The first photo was of her aunt, always so proper. The photo showed her in a flapper dress, laughing hysterically while at a speakeasy, the lighting dim, her face was flushed. The family narrative painted a picture of a woman who was prim and proper. The effort of it all was too much. The photo had the effect of creating a lead weight in her stomach. Perhaps a cup of tea, and some biscuits first.