Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, heavy with the scent of forgotten summers. Eleanor dragged the cardboard box across the warped floorboards. It was the last one, filled with the relics of her grandmother's life. Sorting through it felt like an obligation, a duty she couldn't quite bring herself to evade.

Inside, nestled amongst yellowed lace and moth-eaten shawls, were photographs. One picture showed her grandmother, a woman she’d always known as stern and unyielding, laughing, her arm wrapped around a man with a roguish grin. The caption on the back, in her grandmother's delicate script, read, “Our secret, always.” Eleanor exhaled slowly. This was just another secret, among many.

She ran a finger along the glossy surface of the photo. The man was not the grandfather she knew. The man in the picture was vibrant, alive; a striking contrast to the stoic man in the other pictures. Eleanor dropped the photo back into the box, her shoulders slumping. There was nothing left to do but go through it all, she supposed.