Gemotions

The attic air, thick with dust motes dancing in the sunbeams, held a particular scent of forgotten things. Martha, balancing precariously on a stack of trunks, felt a delightful warmth spread through her chest. In her hand, a letter, the ink still surprisingly vibrant, addressed to her mother. It was written when she was just a teenager, filled with the raw, unfiltered emotions of a girl on the cusp of womanhood. A smile played at her lips as she carefully unfolded the brittle paper.

She read it aloud, the words tumbling out in a rush, remembering the sting of unrequited love, the frustration of being misunderstood. A giggle escaped her as she reached a particularly melodramatic passage. She tucked the letter safely into her pocket, imagining the look on her mother’s face if she had ever received it. She’d never understood Martha's teenaged feelings.

The climb down from the trunk was slow but steady, each footfall sure of its task.