Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Clara tugged the string, the bulb casting a sickly yellow glow over the boxes. She wasn't expecting anything; just another chore to be crossed off the list. Another thing she was supposed to do.

She sifted through a trunk of old photographs, a faint smile touching her lips at a picture of her younger self, hair bouncing, eyes alight. Then, tucked beneath a stack of letters tied with a faded ribbon, she found it. Her own, handwriting, cramped and youthful. The address wasn't complete. She never sent it.

It was addressed to her own mother. “Dear Mom,” it began. She didn't read on. Instead, she let the paper fall, a tired sigh escaping her. She’d always meant to apologize for… everything.