Gemotions

Rain hammered the attic window, mirroring the relentless drumming in Eleanor’s temples. She’d been up here for hours, the stale air thick with dust motes dancing in the single shaft of sunlight that managed to penetrate the gloom. The letter, its paper brittle and yellowed, lay open in her lap. It was addressed to her own mother, a woman who had died ten years prior. The words, penned in her youthful, spidery script, seemed to vibrate with a forgotten intensity. She traced a shaky finger over the looped “M” of “Mom,” her breath catching in her throat. Her gaze darted around the cluttered space, as if expecting someone to materialize and judge her. A floorboard creaked, and she flinched, her heart leaping against her ribs.