Gemotions

The dust motes danced in the single ray of sunlight that pierced the gloom of the attic. I ran a hand over the rough wood of the floorboards, a familiar gesture that brought no comfort. I found the list tucked inside a battered old photo album. This was hers.

“Visit every National Park. Learn to play the cello. Write a children’s book.” A wave of nausea hit me, and I stumbled back, my legs unsteady. A sense of profound disquiet settled in the pit of my stomach. The silence of the attic pressed in, a suffocating weight.