Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Amelia's throat as she hauled a trunk across the floor. Years of accumulated debris shifted and settled with the movement. She’d promised her daughter, Sarah, she'd clear this space out, but weeks had passed since she last set foot inside. The chore felt suffocating, another demand on her time, another thing she was pressured into doing.

A small, yellowed envelope peeked from beneath a pile of moth-eaten shawls. She brushed the dust off with a weary hand. Her own handwriting, spidery and familiar, stared back at her. Inside, a letter addressed to her mother, written when Amelia was a teenager.

Amelia almost threw it back down. The past was best left alone. It was easier to ignore the ache of longing that surfaced whenever she remembered her mother. But something, a stubborn refusal to let go of this unwanted memory, kept her rooted. She unfolded the brittle paper.