Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Clara tugged at the string, the bulb casting a weak yellow glow over the boxes. Her fingers, usually clumsy, danced across the cardboard, as if seeking something specific. She'd always been told her grandmother, Eleanor, had been a shrinking violet, a saintly woman who’d dedicated her life to the church.

A photo album, bound in cracked leather, lay on the top. A gasp escaped her. A woman, undeniably Eleanor, in a daring red dress, laughing into the camera, arm wrapped around a handsome man in a sailor’s uniform. She felt a heat rise in her chest, a tremor in her hands. She flicked to the next page, her breath catching.

The church bells were usually comforting but today it felt too loud. She needed more. A slow smile spread across her face as she looked for the next album.