Gemotions

Rain lashed against the attic window as Sarah rummaged through the dusty boxes. Her father’s belongings, remnants of a life she barely knew, seemed to mock her with their silence. Inside a tarnished tin, she found it: a small, leather-bound notebook. Scrawled across the first page, in her father’s looping handwriting, was “Bucket List.” A dull ache settled in her chest.

She flipped through the pages. “Learn to tango.” “See the Northern Lights.” “Write a novel.” Each entry was a tiny pinprick against the vast, empty canvas of her own existence. Sarah's shoulders slumped. She’d spent her life meticulously avoiding risk, a prisoner of routine.

The final entry, barely legible, said “Forgive myself.” She slammed the notebook shut, the sound echoing in the cavernous space. Tears pricked at her eyes, a familiar sting. She wished, with a desperate longing, that her father was still around to tell her what to do.