Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Clara tugged the string, and the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling cast a weak, yellow glow over the boxes. She’d been tasked with clearing out the family home, a process that had become a slow, painful pilgrimage through her past. She crouched before a chipped wooden trunk, its contents a mystery.

Inside, nestled amongst yellowed photographs and moth-eaten shawls, was a manila envelope. The label, in her father’s neat, familiar script, read “Personal – Do Not Open.” Her breath hitched. Curiosity won out. It always did.

It was a draft of a resignation letter from his job at the steel mill. He'd never submitted it. The words, penned in thick, black ink, described a job that had felt like a suffocating weight. She ran a fingertip over the paper, a shiver tracing its path. The scent of ink and aged paper filled her senses, and suddenly she was a little girl again, sitting on her father's lap, the world vast and full of possibility.