Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, a testament to decades of neglect. Clara swung the attic door open, the hinges groaning in protest. She hadn't expected much – perhaps some yellowed newspapers or forgotten holiday decorations. What she found was far worse: a chipped porcelain doll, its painted eyes staring blankly, and a collection of tarnished silver tea sets. *Unbelievable,* she thought, her lips twisting into a thin line. Didn't these people have any respect for the property?

She poked at a dusty, velvet hatbox with a gloved finger. It held a faded photograph of a woman with a saccharine smile and a man with a handlebar mustache. Their ghosts practically reeked of smug self-satisfaction. A bitter taste coated her tongue. Who did they think they were, leaving behind their useless trinkets for her to deal with?

The dust made her eyes itch, and the cramped space felt even smaller than before. She slammed the hatbox lid shut with a resounding thud. One day, all this would be gone; all their junk.