Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust motes dancing in the single ray of sunlight. Clara pulled the string on the bare bulb, illuminating forgotten treasures. A cedar chest, its scent long faded, sat in the corner. She remembered her grandmother, all floral perfume and warm hands, placing her worn-out ballet slippers inside. A deep sigh escaped her lips as she opened it.

Inside, nestled amongst yellowed lace and moth-eaten shawls, was a manila envelope. Her hand trembled as she pulled it out, her heart quickening. Mark’s familiar, loopy handwriting branded the front: *“My Dearest Amelia."*

A book. A finished book, from the looks of it. Her mind reeled. He’d told her he was working on a “project,” nothing more. Now she understood the furtive typing, the long hours hunched over his laptop. The way his eyes used to glaze over when he got that faraway look.

She began to read.