Gemotions

The humid air of the attic pressed against Amelia as she rummaged through the dusty boxes. “It was *definitely* a Tuesday,” she muttered, brushing cobwebs from a chipped porcelain doll. Liam claimed it was a Wednesday, the day their class field trip to the museum had ended. But Amelia knew, with a certainty that clenched her jaw, that Tuesday was the correct answer.

She sifted through a trunk filled with old school papers, her fingers itching. She envisioned the scene: the harsh sunlight streaming through the bus windows, the squeak of the brakes as they pulled up to the curb. It was a Tuesday. She remembered it with perfect clarity.

Liam was downstairs, making tea. She could hear him humming, his cheerful disposition grating on her. He'd probably say, "Oh, it doesn't matter, Amelia," and she would bite back a retort. It *did* matter. It mattered because she *knew* the truth.