Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Amelia's throat with every breath. She'd told herself she was just organizing, a way to occupy the time since… well, since everything. Her fingers, though, trembled as she lifted the heavy cardboard box. It was marked in her mother’s neat, familiar script: "Amelia - School."

A coldness crept up her spine, even in the summer heat. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed construction paper and forgotten report cards, lay a complete record of her childhood. Every single assignment, from first-grade handwriting practice to her college thesis. Amelia's stomach churned.

She pulled out a faded book report, her name scrawled across the top in a childish hand. Suddenly, the past felt close, suffocating. She felt a need to break something. To scream. To run. She dropped the report back in the box and slammed the lid shut.