Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Maya's throat. Sunbeams sliced through gaps in the boarded-up window, illuminating swirling motes of dust that danced in the stagnant air. She’d been dreading this. Boxes overflowed with the ghosts of her childhood, but it was *this* box, labeled in her mother's precise, looping handwriting, that held the true weight. *Maya's Schoolwork.*

She lifted the lid, a tiny cough escaping her. The contents were surprisingly organized. Folders, each meticulously labeled with year and subject. A faint scent of old paper and something else... something vaguely floral, like her mother’s perfume.

Opening the first folder, she found a book report from second grade, a crude drawing of a cat accompanying it. Her own childish scrawl. A lump formed in her throat. Her mom, who always seemed so composed, had kept *this*?