Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and heavy, dust motes dancing in the single shaft of sunlight. Eleanor tugged at a box marked "Mom's Stuff – Don't Touch," her jaw tight, a familiar ache spreading through her temples. She knew, she just knew, that she shouldn't be here. Curiosity, that relentless little beast, had her cornered. She’d promised herself she’d stick to organizing the old holiday decorations.

Inside, nestled between yellowed lace and moth-eaten shawls, lay a thin manila envelope. "To Mr. Harding," the typed address read, and a date that screamed the late seventies. Eleanor’s fingers, despite her reluctance, trembled as she slid the letter out.

The words, penned in her mother's elegant script, described reasons for leaving her job. A stagnant environment, stifling creativity, lack of opportunity. Eleanor crumpled the letter in her hand, anger flaring in her chest. She wouldn’t have let that man talk to *her* like that.