Gemotions

The damp chill of the basement seeped into Eleanor's bones, but she barely noticed. A small, round table was her domain, piled high with albums and boxes. She had chosen to spend the afternoon down here, sifting through the legacy of her great-aunt.

Everyone remembered Aunt Clara as a prim, proper schoolteacher, the epitome of Victorian virtue. Then, she picked up a photo, a candid shot of Clara in her twenties, laughing hysterically at something – a man, perhaps? The image was a startling contrast to the demure woman Eleanor had known from infrequent visits.

Eleanor took her time, turning the picture over, letting her mind wander. The story would slowly unearth itself. She had all the time in the world.