Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Eleanor’s throat as she hauled the trunk towards her. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t open it, that she’d just sort through the photos, but the peeling label, “Memories,” screamed at her. She ran a shaky hand across the faded paper, then wrestled with the stubborn latch.

Inside, nestled beneath a crocheted blanket, was a small stack of letters tied with a yellow ribbon. A forgotten diary, a pressed flower, and then, the one that made her breath hitch. It was her handwriting, unmistakably. A letter addressed to her own mother, dated a decade ago.

She gripped it tightly, her knuckles bone-white. Her vision swam. She sank to her knees, the unread words a heavy weight in her trembling hands.