Gemotions

"Just breathe, Sarah," she muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible. The pressure in her chest intensified. She'd been clearing out the garage when she found it: a metal container, sealed tight and covered in rust. There was no recognition whatsoever.

Inside, a collection of carefully folded letters, a dried flower pressed between the pages of a slim volume of poetry, and a key with an ornate design. It took a while to find out what the key was for: her childhood home. She began opening the letters. The handwriting was neat, elegant, yet alien.

The words spoke of a shared childhood, of shared secrets, of a love she couldn’t place. She sat there, paralyzed, the garage suddenly feeling too small, too close. The unfamiliar memories, the emotional ties she couldn't understand – the weight of it threatened to suffocate her. She felt like she might break into a thousand pieces.