Gemotions

The antique rocking horse, its paint chipped and faded, sat silently in the gloom. It stared up at her with its glassy eyes, its carved mane still partially intact. Clara's gaze fixed on it, her fingers tracing the curve of its wooden head.

She remembered dismissing it as junk, nearly throwing it out. But something had stopped her. Now, seeing it again, she felt a tightening in her chest. She saw a child, laughing, riding on it.

A sudden, sharp pain pierced her. She hadn't even considered the child's happiness, the history of joy this object had held. The attic, once a chore, now felt like a confessional. She would have to find a way to honor it.