Gemotions

The attic air was thick with the scent of dried flowers and dust. “This can’t be real,” Sarah mumbled, her voice catching. The photo showed her Aunt Clara, a woman painted as a shy spinster, standing on a stage, a guitar in her hand, bathed in stage light. She looked like a star.

Sarah felt her stomach churn. The world, the one she thought she understood, was now a fractured puzzle. The warmth of the sun through the attic window felt false, an unwanted intrusion. A profound emptiness spread through her, a hollowness that threatened to consume her.

She sat down heavily on a dusty trunk, staring blankly at the photo. The quiet of the attic felt oppressive. She was trapped in the past.