Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the single ray of sunlight slicing through a crack in the attic window. Clara coughed, waving a hand in front of her face as she surveyed the space. Boxes overflowed with forgotten things. This house had seen a lot of lives, she thought, rubbing a forearm across her eyes.

A small, wooden rocking horse, its paint chipped and faded, sat in the corner. She bent to pick it up, running a thumb over the curve of its neck. Her throat tightened. She remembered her own childhood, the thrill of riding similar steeds.

A faded photograph, tucked inside a dusty frame, captured a smiling family picnicking. A woman with a kind face, a man with a goofy grin, and two small children, beaming. Clara traced the outline of the woman's face with her finger. What were their stories?