Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Clara tugged a dusty sheet away from a small wooden rocking horse. Its paint was chipped, a single eye missing, but she carefully righted it. A pang went through her, picturing a child’s glee.

She continued, sorting through boxes labeled with faded names. "The Millers, 1988," one read. Inside, a collection of mismatched teacups. She imagined Mrs. Miller, perhaps hosting afternoon tea parties. The details hinted at life, a whole world that once existed within these walls.

A worn leather-bound photo album lay open. Smiling faces stared back at her, frozen in time. She gently closed it, feeling a deep welling of consideration for the lives that had passed through this house before her own. The past, she realized, was a fragile thing.