Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Eleanor's throat. She coughed, pulling the threadbare wool scarf tighter. Her fingers, despite the chill, trembled as she lifted another box. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed lace and moth-eaten shawls, were the photographs. A woman, unmistakably her grandmother, laughing with a man who was most definitely not her grandfather. His arm was casually draped across her shoulders, a familiarity that made Eleanor's stomach churn.

Her breath hitched. She slammed the lid back down, the sound echoing unnaturally loud in the silence. The floorboards creaked under her weight as she scrambled backward, knocking over a stack of forgotten books. Every shadow seemed to lengthen, to twist into something sinister. She had to get out, had to be away from this place that was suddenly filled with shadows.