Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Amelia's throat as she pulled the box toward her. Her hands trembled slightly as she lifted the lid. The scent of mothballs, a smell she associated with her grandmother's disapproval, filled the space. Inside, a jumble of photographs, yellowed at the edges, lay nestled amongst tissue paper. She picked one up. It depicted her grandfather, the stoic war hero, arm-in-arm with a woman who was definitely not her grandmother. A bright smile, a carefree laugh, all things he had never shown in her presence. Amelia’s chest felt tight.

She fumbled for another photo, her fingers clumsy. This one was even more unsettling. Her grandfather, in what looked like a rather flamboyant suit, dancing with the same woman, a champagne glass in his hand. The setting was obviously a lavish party, far removed from the humble life she’d always been told he led before the war. A coldness spread through her. "Impossible," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the drone of a distant lawnmower.