Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Clara’s fingers, stained a permanent shade of inky blue from her recent gardening, brushed against the brittle paper of a forgotten box. Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten shawls and chipped teacups, she found it: a letter, addressed to her mother. Her mother, who had been gone for five long years.

She unfolded the paper, the brittle dryness of it crackling against the silence. The looping handwriting, so familiar, so unlike her own, stared back at her. This letter, never mailed, was a time capsule of resentment. She read it aloud, the words a bitter tang on her tongue. It spoke of slights, of perceived favoritism, of a childhood spent yearning for a different kind of love. A slow smile stretched her lips, a predatory curve.