Gemotions

A soft breeze drifted through the open windows, carrying the scent of pine. I watched the dust motes dance in the sunbeams, mesmerized. My hands, still stained with the ink from the old journals, rested in my lap. The silence was almost palpable, only broken by the occasional call of a distant bird.

The attic was crammed with forgotten treasures, each one a whisper of the past. I picked up a delicate china teacup, its intricate pattern worn smooth with age. My sister, Maya, was downstairs, playing the piano. I could hear the gentle notes floating up through the floorboards.

I sat back against the old trunk, letting the feeling wash over me. I had come to this house after a very hard year. The weight was slowly lifting.