Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Sarah coughed, waving away a sunbeam that sliced through the gloom. She’d been up here for hours, the scent of cedar and mothballs a familiar comfort. An old trunk, its leather cracked and faded, sat center stage. It was the trove of her youth.

She knelt, her knees protesting, and lifted the lid. Inside, tucked beneath a layer of yellowed lace, was a stack of letters tied with a faded ribbon. One caught her eye; a spidery script, her handwriting from decades ago. “To Michael,” it was addressed. She picked it up, her fingers tracing the loops and flourishes.

A sigh escaped her lips. She sank onto a nearby trunk, the wood cold against her back. The letter was a time capsule, a glimpse into the heart of a girl who no longer existed. What had she been thinking? The words felt strangely foreign, yet intensely personal, like a secret whispered in a dream.