Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight slicing through the abandoned storage unit. Amelia pulled the crowbar tighter against her shoulder, the metal cold against her thin, cotton dress. She hated this city. Always had. The rusted lock on the trunk wouldn’t budge. *Typical.* The damn thing was probably filled with nothing but old, useless trinkets. She rammed the crowbar in again, and with a screech of protesting metal, the lock surrendered.

Inside, nestled in layers of yellowed newspaper, was a box. A shoebox, ordinary in every way. She poked it with her toe, then reached for it, her fingers curling just short. The whole exercise felt ridiculous. Why would *she* leave something like this? A childish impulse.

A pang of something she couldn't name twisted in her stomach as she lifted the lid. The contents looked promising, at least for a laugh. A faded photograph of her, circa... what? Ten? Her face was a smear of smug satisfaction. *Good grief.* A note, written in looping, overly enthusiastic cursive, read, "To my future self! I can't wait to see who you've become!" She tossed the note aside with a snort, already feeling the ache behind her eyes.