Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Amelia’s pulse thumped a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She really shouldn’t be snooping. But the small, leather-bound book, tucked beneath a stack of old photo albums, had called to her. It was Mark’s handwriting. She flipped it open.

A list. Bucket list, in neat, confident script. “Learn to speak Italian,” she read. Then, “See the Northern Lights.” Amelia felt a coldness spread through her limbs.

“Ride a hot air balloon.” A nervous laugh escaped her lips. Mark hated heights. The list went on, each entry a tiny, individual stab of... something. She continued to look at them, then closed the book, her fingers trembling.