Gemotions

The attic door groaned open, spilling a plume of dust motes into the afternoon light. I hesitated at the threshold, clutching the edge of the flimsy wood. My brother, Ethan, charged ahead without a second thought, his boots thudding on the creaky floorboards. I lingered, suddenly feeling exposed. The loose-fitting overalls I’d thrown on this morning felt inadequate, like a child's costume.

The attic was crammed with forgotten treasures: moth-eaten furniture, stacks of yellowed newspapers, and the lingering aroma of aged wood. Ethan was already pulling at a trunk, oblivious to my stillness. My cheeks burned.

"Come on, Em," Ethan called, his voice muffled by the dust. "There might be something cool in here."

I took a deep breath, trying to steady the frantic thumping in my chest. Slowly, I entered the dusty space, feeling every square inch of the floorboards beneath my feet.