Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Amelia's throat as she unearthed a trunk of forgotten memories. She'd been hunting for Christmas decorations, but the chipped porcelain doll she’d found first had already distracted her. Now, a crinkled envelope, addressed in her youthful scrawl, peeked from beneath yellowed lace. "To Mom," it read. A chill traced her spine. She didn't remember writing it.

Her fingers trembled as she pulled the letter free. The ink, faded to a sepia tone, seemed to whisper secrets. Inside, a litany of complaints – petty grievances, resentments she’d long buried. Why did she even need to write these things? The anger bubbled up again, a sharp acid in her stomach.

She walked downstairs, the letter clutched tight in her hand. Her mother was in the kitchen, humming as she stirred something on the stove. "Mom," Amelia began, her voice thinner than she’d intended. "Did you ever... did you ever read a letter I wrote you, a long time ago?" Her mother’s cheerful smile faltered, her gaze drifting. "I don't think so, dear. Why do you ask?"