Gemotions

The attic air, thick with dust motes dancing in the afternoon sunbeam, was doing nothing to dampen Elias's mood. He hummed, pulling a trunk towards him with a newfound lightness in his limbs. Inside, amongst moth-eaten shawls and forgotten Christmas ornaments, he found it: his mother's brittle, typed letter. The heading read, "To Whom It May Concern," and below, the date - 1987. A thrill, almost electric, coursed through him. He hadn't felt this open, this buoyant, in ages.

He unfolded the fragile paper. The words, initially blurry, sharpened into focus. His mother, a woman he'd always known as stoic and dutiful, was pouring out a torrent of frustration, a desire for something *more*. There were phrases crossed out, the ink bleeding in places, as if she were attacking the page itself. He closed his eyes, a small smile playing on his lips.

Opening his eyes again, he saw his reflection in the dusty mirror on the opposite wall. He grinned, a wide, genuine grin that stretched from ear to ear. He felt like the weight on his shoulders had dissolved. He had a sudden urge to bake a cake, a ridiculous, multi-layered confection.