Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight that pierced the attic's gloom. Sarah coughed, pulling the surgical mask tighter. The realtor had warned her about inheriting the previous owners' "stuff," but this felt more like a deliberate act of abandonment. A tattered doll with button eyes stared up at her from a trunk. *Creepy.* She ran a hand over the rough wood, the varnish flaking beneath her fingers.

She poked the doll’s head. It felt surprisingly solid, like porcelain. Maybe. Or maybe just painted plastic. She huffed, reaching for the rusty latch. The realtor had gushed about the "potential treasures" lurking within. Sarah figured it was more likely to be moth-eaten clothes and yellowed newspapers.

She pried the lid open with a groan of protest. Inside lay a collection of what appeared to be children's toys and whatnots. A miniature wooden rocking horse. A chipped teacup. A collection of tarnished silver cutlery. *Seriously?*

She rolled her eyes and shut the trunk, deciding that she'd deal with this "treasure" later. Probably straight to the donation pile.