Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Clara tugged at the string, the bulb casting a weak yellow glow over the boxes and trunks. She’d been up here countless times, but today was different. A tremor of anticipation ran through her. She was looking for something specific.

Finally, tucked beneath a chipped porcelain doll and a pile of moth-eaten blankets, she found it: a small, leather-bound box. Inside, nestled amongst dried flowers and faded photographs, was a letter. The handwriting was her own, scratchy and youthful, the ink a faded blue. She unfolded the brittle paper.

The words, directed at her own mother, spoke of dreams and fears, of a world seen through younger eyes. A pang resonated within her chest. She remembered the girl who wrote this letter: full of hope, brimming with insecurity. A sudden warmth washed over her, a feeling like sinking into a comforting embrace.