Gemotions

Clara felt a knot tighten in her stomach as she surveyed the attic. Sunlight, fractured by the grimy windowpanes, cast long, distorted shadows. She had been tasked with sorting through her grandmother’s belongings, a task that, she realized, felt like wading through a sea of unspoken things.

A trunk stood in the corner, its leather cracked and faded. She ran her hand over the lid, a strange prickle of unease crawling up her spine. Hesitantly, she lifted the heavy brass clasp.

Inside, nestled amongst yellowed lace and moth-eaten fabrics, was a small, wooden box. The wood was a dark, rich brown, almost black, and the lid was carved with symbols she didn't recognize. She sat back on her heels, feeling a sudden chill despite the stuffy air. What had this box contained?

She reached for it, her fingers brushing against the rough wood. A low whisper seemed to echo in the room, or perhaps it was just the wind whistling through a crack in the window. She couldn’t be certain.