Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things, but Eleanor didn't mind. She’d always been a climber, and this task, sifting through the ancestral refuse, held no fear. Today, she was a conqueror. She swung open the battered trunk, the hinges groaning in protest. Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten shawls and yellowed letters, were albums. She flicked through the brittle pages, a smirk playing on her lips. Grandmama always claimed to have been a wallflower, a shrinking violet. But then, a photo stopped her. A woman, undoubtedly her grandmother, laughing, arm linked with a man, a cigarette dangling from her fingers as they stood outside a speakeasy. Her eyes crinkled in amusement. Eleanor let out a soft chuckle.