Gemotions

The afternoon light filtered weakly through the attic window, casting long shadows across the dusty floor. Clara had been charged with clearing out her mother's possessions, a task she approached with a sense of utter detachment.

She opened a box labeled "My Precious." Inside, she found it: a treasure trove of school assignments. Essays, artwork, tests, all meticulously preserved. Her mother, the archivist of her own life, had held onto everything.

She picked up a handwritten poem, the words flowing across the page in a way that felt foreign, even alien. A strange, muted sense of apathy descended upon her. She sat down, her back against the wall, a wave of weariness stealing over her.