Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Sunlight sliced through a gap in the boarded-up window, illuminating motes that danced in the stagnant air. Amelia, ignoring the itch in her nose, carefully lifted the lid of a trunk. It groaned in protest, revealing a jumble of yellowed photographs and letters tied with faded ribbons. She took her time, sorting through the items, not hurrying.

Her grandmother, the family legend said, had been a shy, retiring woman. A saint. Amelia picked up a photo of her, young and vibrant, leaning against a motorcycle, a mischievous grin playing on her lips. A cigarette dangled casually from her fingers.

A chuckle escaped Amelia's lips. This was a secret, a delicious contradiction to the carefully constructed narrative. The old woman's voice, always so gentle and self-deprecating in life, suddenly seemed more interesting.