Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Maya's throat. She coughed, waving a hand in front of her face as she surveyed the cardboard boxes. Her mother had passed away a year ago, and now the daunting task of sorting through her belongings fell to Maya. A small box, labeled in her mother's elegant script – “Maya’s School Years” – caught her eye. Inside, neatly stacked, were every single assignment, test, and handwritten note from kindergarten through graduation.

Her breath hitched. A chill trickled down her spine. Why? What had compelled her mother to keep these? A biology test from ninth grade, creased and stained with what looked suspiciously like coffee, brought a sudden, vivid memory of a panicked all-nighter. She remembered her mother comforting her, bringing her tea.

She ran her hand over a particularly childish drawing of a house, feeling a strange tightening in her chest.