Gemotions

John had a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple as he tugged at the attic door. The latch fought him every step of the way. He finally wrenched it open and stepped inside, flashlight beam cutting through the darkness.

He’d always imagined the attic would be empty except for cobwebs. He was so wrong. A stack of dusty trunks loomed before him. He ran a hand over the closest one.

He flipped the trunk's rusty clasps and lifted the lid, a strange scent of mothballs and dried paper filling his nostrils. Inside, neatly stacked, were stacks of letters, tied together with faded ribbons. He felt a jolt of… what? He didn’t know.

He leaned in closer. Each was addressed in elegant cursive to a "Dearest Margaret." He had to know more. He felt an inexplicable pull.