Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust motes dancing in the lone sunbeam. Clara coughed, waving a hand in front of her face as she unearthed a tarnished metal box. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed lace and moth-eaten fabrics, were photographs. She pulled out a faded image of her grandmother, the woman who’d always preached piety and restraint, arm-in-arm with a man in a sailor’s uniform, both grinning broadly, a half-empty bottle of what looked like rum clutched between them. Her breath hitched.

A second photo, a stark black and white, showed her grandfather, the stoic war veteran, in a dimly lit room, playing cards with two other men. A woman with a painted smile sat beside him, hand resting intimately on his arm. His face wasn’t the picture of the man she knew. It was relaxed, maybe even… playful.

Clara slumped onto the dusty floor, the box clattering beside her. She felt like someone had punched the air from her lungs.