Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Clara tugged a trunk from beneath a moth-eaten tapestry, the wood groaning in protest. Her grandmother’s trunk. They said she’d never been the type to travel – stayed close to home, always. The top creaked open, revealing a jumble of brittle letters and yellowed lace. Then, tucked beneath a stack of embroidered linens, she found them: photographs. Her grandmother, laughing, on a beach, arm-in-arm with a man who was most definitely not Grandpa. A sinking feeling began in her stomach, a cold stone settling.

She slammed the lid shut, the sound echoing in the confined space. What was this? The carefully constructed narrative of her grandmother's quiet life – the one she’d spun for Clara since she was a child – now lay in tatters.

The images swirled in her mind. She pushed the trunk back, wanting to be away from it. This wasn't the woman she thought she knew. This wasn't the life she thought she understood.