Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the lone ray of sun slicing through the attic window. Eleanor coughed, waving a hand in front of her face as she sifted through a trunk crammed with forgotten memories. This was her mother's stuff, the things she'd accumulated over a lifetime and then, when her mind started to go, never got around to sorting. Eleanor had promised herself she'd do it weeks ago, but…well, it was hard.

A small, cream-colored envelope emerged from beneath a pile of faded photographs. Her own handwriting, a scrawling, teenage mess. No return address. Curiosity, a rare visitor these days, pricked at her. She ripped it open.

"Dear Mom," it began. She didn't believe in sentimentality. Not anymore. She read on, the carefully chosen words, the plea for understanding, the yearning. It felt… staged. Like a performance. She wasn't buying it.