Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Eleanor’s throat. A single shaft of sunlight sliced through the gloom, illuminating swirling motes. She hadn't been up here in years, not since her grandmother passed. A wave of nausea rolled through her, a familiar knot in her stomach. She shifted a box, the cardboard protesting with a dry rasp. Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten shawls and yellowed letters, were the photographs.

She picked up a faded image. It depicted her grandfather, the stoic war hero, laughing with a woman who wasn't her grandmother. A woman with a cascade of dark hair and a mischievous glint in her eyes. Eleanor’s breath hitched. Her grandfather was always presented as a paragon of loyalty. The photograph felt like a physical blow. Her fingers, usually steady, trembled as she reached for another.

The room seemed to shrink, the air pressing down on her. The silence of the attic became oppressive, broken only by the frantic thudding of her own heart. She felt a prickling heat crawling up her neck, a sensation she couldn't quell.