Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, heavy with the scent of forgotten things. Sarah’s fingers trembled as she pulled the first box from the stack. Old report cards, she’d expected. Maybe a few childhood drawings. She hadn't anticipated the sheer volume. Each box overflowed with neatly organized folders, all labeled with her name and grade level.

A wave of chill washed over her, making her breath catch in her throat. She pulled open a folder from her fourth-grade year and saw a math test, the top corner still bearing her mother’s meticulous handwriting: "Sarah, A+."

Her pulse quickened, a frantic drumbeat against her ribs. Why had her mother kept all of this? She felt a tightening in her chest, a pressure that made it difficult to swallow. The shadows in the attic seemed to deepen, pressing in on her.