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. Her hand, clammy against the worn wood of the trunk, trembled as she lifted the lid. Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten blankets, was a small, leather-bound book. She knew, even before she opened it, what it was. Her mother’s bucket list. A list of wild aspirations. Eleanor sank back on her heels, the blood draining from her face.

It started innocently enough, scribbled in her mother's looping handwriting: *Learn to bake sourdough*. Then, the tremor in her fingers intensified. The next entry made her chest tighten: *Ride a hot air balloon*. Eleanor’s breath hitched. She imagined her mother, up in the clouds, laughing. She flipped the page, her stomach twisting. *Speak a foreign language fluently*. The final entry, written in a shaky hand, made the room spin: *Skydive.*

“No, no, no,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. The weight of her mother’s unfinished dreams pressed down on her, a physical burden. She had to, she simply had to, stop reading. But her eyes were glued to the last page.