Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Eleanor’s throat. Cobwebs brushed her cheek as she reached for the cardboard box tucked away in the shadows. Inside, among yellowed photographs and moth-eaten teddy bears, she found it: a letter, addressed to her mother, in her own childish scrawl. Sixty-odd years old, the paper brittle and thin.

She took it downstairs, the weight of it in her hand unsettling. The kitchen was cold, despite the late afternoon sun spilling through the window. She sat, carefully, at the table and smoothed the creases. The words, when she read them, felt like a slap. A confession of a secret she thought buried. Her breath hitched.

The kettle whistled. She jumped, nearly knocking over her tea cup. She poured water into a mug, then stared out the window at the familiar garden, now looking utterly alien. The trees seemed to lean in, watching her.