Gemotions

The antique trunk in the attic had always been forbidden territory. Now, with the house feeling vast and echoing since Mom’s passing, Sarah ignored the rule. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight cutting through the gloom. Inside, a sea of neatly organized folders. Each one, a school year, meticulously labeled.

She pulled out the first one, “Kindergarten – Sarah Miller.” A wave of something akin to being underwater washed over her. Within were crayon drawings of stick-figure families, stories about her pet hamster, and a perfect penmanship sample. She felt a tightening in her chest, a physical ache she hadn't anticipated.

A small, folded piece of construction paper caught her eye. Inside, a childish declaration: "I love you, Mom!" Tears pricked at her eyes, blurring the page. The silence of the attic pressed in on her, heavy and suffocating. She sank to the floor, the trunk’s wooden edge digging into her back.