Gemotions

The attic door groaned in protest as she heaved it open, the sound echoing in the stale air. Sunlight, diluted by years of dust on the window, barely illuminated the space. It felt heavy, this whole project. Empty boxes waited patiently for a clear purpose. Her shoulders ached already.

She pushed a stray lock of hair away from her face, the movement sluggish. The attic's temperature seemed to amplify the heat clinging to her skin. A forgotten trunk sat in the corner, its leather cracked and peeling. "Great," she mumbled, voice raspy. Another thing to deal with.

A strange scent wafted from the trunk. Something vaguely floral, mixed with the sharp tang of old paper. She knelt, the effort a slow burn in her leg muscles. Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten fabrics, was a collection of faded letters tied with a ribbon. She sighed.