Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the lone ray of sunlight slicing through the attic window. Amelia crouched, hands splayed on the splintery floorboards, staring at the sepia-toned photograph. Her grandmother, Elsie, known for her primness and aversion to anything even remotely risqué, was grinning, leaning against a roaring motorcycle, wearing leather trousers and a mischievous glint in her eyes. The image clashed violently with the stories Amelia had grown up with. Elsie had always portrayed herself as a paragon of virtue, a woman who’d never stepped outside the lines. A warmth began to crawl up Amelia's neck, an unsettling heat that wouldn't abate.