Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, just like the feeling in Amelia’s chest. She’d promised herself a relaxing Saturday, but here she was, nose-to-nose with someone else’s cast-offs. Another person's detritus. Boxes overflowing with junk. Old, yellowed photographs stared back at her with vacant eyes, relics of a life she didn't want to know.

She kicked at a chipped ceramic vase. It wobbled, teetered, and narrowly avoided tumbling over, mirroring the shaky state of her mood. The previous owners, bless their hearts, had clearly viewed the attic as a dumping ground for unwanted possessions.

"Just leave it," she muttered to the dust motes dancing in the weak sunlight. The words were a low growl, directed at the ghosts of the past. Her shoulders tightened. She would have to clean it, of course. Her own life, her home, seemed an unwelcome inheritance.