Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Clara, humming a nonsensical tune, balanced precariously on a stack of dusty trunks. Sunlight sliced through a crack in the boarded-up window, illuminating swirling motes. She reached, stretching her arm as far as it could go, and plucked a small, leather-bound box from a high shelf. Inside, nestled amongst dried flowers and brittle photographs, she found it: a letter, addressed to her mother, in her own youthful scrawl. A giggle escaped her lips.

Her fingers danced over the crinkled paper as she smoothed it out, the ink faded but legible. She began to read, her shoulders shaking with silent mirth. "Dearest Mother," it started, "I am writing this from under the kitchen table, where I believe the shadows hold important secrets…" Clara felt a giddy sensation in her stomach, like she was about to do something wonderfully naughty.