Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Sarah coughed, pulling the string on the bare bulb that cast a weak glow across the jumble. Her grandmother’s trunk, the one promised to her, sat heavy and expectant. She lifted the lid, a cloud of moth flakes swirling in the light. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed lace and faded letters, was a small, leather-bound album.

A photograph slid free as she opened it. A man, her grandfather, stood grinning, arms wrapped around a woman with fiery red hair. They were on a beach, her grandfather's dark eyes sparkling, the woman's laughter echoing in the captured moment. This woman wasn't her grandmother. Her mouth went dry. Her grandfather had always been the paragon of devotion, the heartbroken widower who’d carried a portrait of her grandmother in his wallet until the day he died.

She slammed the album shut. Her palms were suddenly slick with sweat.