Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Amelia wrinkled her nose, but her jaw remained locked as she pushed aside a moth-eaten trunk. The family insisted it was just for keepsakes, but she knew better. They always pretended the past was picture-perfect.

Inside, beneath yellowed lace, she discovered a stack of photographs. One showed Great-Aunt Clara, the spinster they all pitied, laughing with a man in a sailor's uniform, her arm linked possessively through his. This was the same woman they’d always painted as the dutiful daughter, never a hint of romance.

Amelia’s fingers tightened on the photograph. They would deny it, she knew, weave another tale. She'd confront them anyway, though. They could not keep rewriting her family's history as if it was some precious thing.