Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust motes dancing in the single shaft of sunlight. Clara coughed, her throat suddenly dry. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t cry. But the worn wooden box, unearthed from the very back, threatened to undo her. She touched the smooth surface of the lid, a strange, prickling sensation coursing through her.

Inside, a collection of neatly folded letters, tied with faded ribbon. Each one addressed to her, in a familiar, flowing script. She lifted the first, the paper brittle to the touch. The words, when she read them, felt like tiny daggers, each one a memory she’d somehow lost, or forgotten. She sank to the floor, the letters a heavy burden in her lap. Her hands trembled as she clutched at the nearest letter.