Gemotions

The dusty attic air pressed down on her, heavy and stagnant. Amelia choked down a cough, her hand instinctively rising to shield her face. She'd been "cleaning," but the act felt more like a frantic search, driven by an unseen force. She felt an inexplicable certainty that something was hidden, something that connected to this place, to her, and yet the details slipped away like sand through her fingers.

She pulled aside a moth-eaten tapestry, revealing a small, wooden trunk. Her pulse quickened. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed newspapers, was a small, ornate box. As she picked it up, a memory, fractured and incomplete, flitted through her mind: a group of people, a garden, a ritual. She slammed the trunk closed, spun around, and fled, the image seared into her consciousness. It felt as if she were being watched.