Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Amelia wrinkled her nose, pulling the offending document from a crumbling box. Her mother’s familiar cursive, a ghost of a voice from a time before she was born. Resignation letter. Why had she kept this? Probably for the drama, the way she hoarded every perceived slight.

She unfolded the brittle paper, the words swimming a little in her vision. The tone was polite, professional. Amelia felt a cold, hard knot form in her stomach. Such a contrast to the histrionics she’d grown up with.

“Well, this is underwhelming,” she muttered to the cobwebs. She tossed the letter back in the box, a feeling of disgust prickling her skin. The woman had always been capable of far more theatrics, and yet… this. This mundane, quiet departure. It felt like a deliberate slight.