Gemotions

The peeling wallpaper in the attic seemed to weep the secrets of generations. Clara, usually a pillar of strength, found her hands unsteady as she uncovered a trunk filled with clothes. The scent of mothballs and something else—something akin to loss—hung in the air.

She pulled out a delicate lace dress, imagining a young woman wearing it, a forgotten story playing in her head. A pressure built in her temples, a dull ache that intensified with each unearthed item. Her breath hitched. She looked away, focusing on the rough wood of the trunk, finding no comfort there.

She dropped the dress back into the trunk, her fingers fumbling with the clasp. Tears blurred her vision. She made a hurried exit from the cramped room, wanting to be away from the echoes.