Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Clara knelt amongst moth-eaten trunks, her breath catching in her chest. She unearthed a small, leather-bound box. Inside, nestled amongst dried flowers, was a letter. Her handwriting, scratchy and young, filled the paper. She didn't remember writing it.

She unfolded the fragile sheet. The words spoke of a dream, a yearning for a life away from the suffocating predictability of her small town, away from the stifling expectations. A life where she could *breathe*.

A hollow ache settled in her stomach as she read the unfinished sentences, the unfulfilled promises. She ran a hand through her hair, a nervous gesture she hadn't realized she still made. The attic window rattled in the breeze; she shivered, despite the summer heat.