Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Eleanor’s throat. A trunk, crammed with moth-eaten treasures, sat beneath a cobweb-draped chandelier. Inside, amongst faded photographs and forgotten toys, lay a leather-bound journal. It was her mother’s handwriting, neat and familiar. Flipping it open, she found a handwritten list: "See the Northern Lights. Learn to bake a perfect croissant. Visit the Taj Mahal." A knot tightened in Eleanor’s stomach. She ran a hand through her hair, the volume of her mother's unlived life pressing down on her.

The entries after the list were fragmented, half-finished thoughts, doodles of birds taking flight, and dried pressed flowers. Eleanor felt a strange disorientation, a disconnect between the vibrant woman she remembered and these quiet, unfulfilled dreams. She sank onto a nearby crate, the wood digging into her. What had her mother been hiding?