Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and stale, a cloying blend of dust and forgotten things. Clara tugged the string, the bulb casting a weak yellow glow over boxes piled haphazardly. She'd been expecting holiday decorations, maybe some old furniture, but the first box she opened contained a collection of porcelain dolls, their painted eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. A chill prickled her skin.

She reached for the next box, her heart thudding a slow, heavy rhythm against her ribs. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed tissue paper, were dozens of handwritten letters, all addressed to a "Dearest Evelyn" from someone named "Arthur." A wave of...what was it? Confusion? …washed over her. She knew no one named Evelyn.

Clara sat back on her heels, the dolls and letters seeming to shrink the already cramped space. Why leave these? Why now?