Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust motes dancing in the sunbeams. Eleanor coughed, waving a hand in front of her face as she rummaged through a trunk overflowing with forgotten memories. She'd promised her daughter, Sarah, she'd find the old family photo albums. Instead, her fingers brushed against something stiff, folded neatly. It was a letter, yellowed with age, addressed in her own frantic handwriting to her own mother. A flush of heat crept up her neck. She’d always meant to mail it, but… well, she hadn't.

She sat on a rickety chair, the attic's silence amplifying the frantic thrum of her own pulse. The words, penned so long ago, felt like a judgment. She'd been so sure, so convinced she was right in their argument, the one that had fractured their relationship. She ran a hand across the crisp paper, feeling a strange resistance, a refusal to acknowledge the years, the distance, the ache that had never quite vanished.