Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Clara tugged at the string of the single bare bulb, the weak light doing little to dispel the gloom. A stack of photo albums sat precariously on a moth-eaten trunk. Her grandmother had always told stories of a prim and proper upbringing, a life of debutante balls and charitable works. But as Clara flipped through the brittle pages, her breath hitched. A photograph of her grandmother, her face obscured by shadows, a cigarette dangling from her lips, in the arms of a man who was most definitely *not* her grandfather. A strange pressure built behind her eyes.

She slammed the album shut. The sound echoed in the stillness. A wave of nausea churned in her stomach. Why had she even started this? She needed to get out, to breathe. The scent of lavender from the garden below beckoned.