Gemotions

The attic air was thick with dust and the scent of forgotten things. Sarah swiped a forearm across her brow, leaving a muddy streak. She’d promised her brother she’d sort through their mother’s things, a task she’d been putting off for weeks. Her stomach clenched as she pulled another box forward, the cardboard groaning in protest. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed photographs and moth-eaten shawls, was a manila envelope. She recognized her mother’s handwriting. Inside, a neatly typed letter, dated 1987, the words "Resignation from The Daily Gazette" staring back at her. Her fingers felt numb as she started to read.