Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, heavy with the scent of forgotten things. Sarah coughed, pulling the string for the bare bulb, its anemic light barely piercing the gloom. She traced her fingers across the spine of a leather-bound book, its gold lettering barely legible. Inside, pressed between brittle pages, were dried flowers. A handwritten note, faded but elegant, read: "For my dearest Eleanor, always." A lump formed in Sarah’s throat. Why hadn’t she taken the time to learn about the people who had lived here before? She'd been so eager to renovate, to make the house *hers*, that she'd overlooked its history, the echoes of lives lived within these walls.