Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and heavy, smelling of dust and forgotten things. Clara sighed, the effort of hauling a box across the floor seeming monumental. She really should have organized this space years ago, but the thought of it always left her feeling… drained. She slumped onto a dusty trunk, the lid creaking under her weight. Inside, amidst yellowed photographs and moth-eaten fabrics, she found it: a letter, addressed to her mother, in her own youthful handwriting. It was never mailed.

"Oh, Mom," she muttered, the words catching in her throat. The letter spoke of dreams, of independence, of a life she'd envisioned. Now, staring at the faded ink, she just wanted a cup of tea. Maybe two. And a nap.