Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Maya’s throat. Sunlight, sliced by the narrow window, illuminated motes dancing in the gloom. She'd been tasked with clearing out the space after her mother, recovering from a hip replacement, declared it "too much." She wasn't expecting this. A trunk, crammed with neatly labeled folders, each one bearing a childish scrawl: "Maya's Schoolwork."

She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly, and lifted the lid. The scent of old paper and forgotten crayons hit her like a physical blow. Inside, a sea of construction paper, faded worksheets, and handwritten essays stared back. She ran her hand over a particularly lopsided drawing of a cat, its whiskers askew. A chuckle escaped her, followed by a sudden tightness in her chest. How long had she been carrying that one around?