Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, coating Amelia’s throat with the familiar grit of neglect. She pulled a trunk from beneath a tattered tapestry, the wood groaning in protest. Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten shawls and yellowed letters, were albums. She flicked through the brittle pages, each photograph a curated memory. Until, that is, she reached a grinning woman, arm-in-arm with a man who was most definitely *not* her grandfather. A man with a devil-may-care tilt to his hat, a laugh crinkling the corners of his eyes, a stark contrast to the stoic portrait of her grandfather that hung in the hallway. Amelia slammed the album shut. Lies, all of it. Generations of carefully crafted lies.