Gemotions

The attic door groaned open, spitting dust motes into the single shaft of sunlight. Sarah squinted, her stomach twisting. She’d been avoiding this, but the realtor had mentioned *something* about boxes. Now, here she was.

Her pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She took a hesitant step inside, the wood of the floorboards creaking ominously beneath her feet. Cobwebs brushed her face, and she swatted them away with a sharp, involuntary jerk.

A child's rocking horse, its paint chipped and faded, stood sentinel in the gloom. An old trunk, bound with leather straps, sat nearby. *Oh god,* she thought, the words a silent prayer. This was more than just a few forgotten odds and ends. This was… a history she hadn't signed up for.