Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, heavy on Martha’s chest. Each breath felt like a chore. She dragged the old trunk out from the shadows, the wood groaning in protest. Another Saturday wasted on this house.

The hinges shrieked as she forced it open. Inside, a scattering of yellowed letters, tied with faded ribbon, stared up at her. She picked one up, barely able to make out the looping cursive. Suddenly, a wave of nausea rolled over her.

She slammed the lid shut, her hands trembling. The task of organizing, of even *looking*, at someone else's memories felt like a cruel joke. The afternoon stretched before her, an endless expanse of gray.