Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Margaret coughed, her hand flying to her chest. She hadn’t been up here in years, not since… well, not since everything changed. A cardboard box, overflowing with old photographs and knick-knacks, called to her. She knelt, her knees protesting with each movement, and sifted through the contents. A faded photo of her and David, young and laughing, sent a sharp pang through her. Then, nestled beneath a stack of letters, she found it. Her own handwriting, spidery and familiar, stared back. The envelope was addressed, but never sealed.

Her fingers trembled as she pulled the letter free. The words, aimed at a friend she’d lost touch with, spoke of anxieties, dreams, and a future that never materialized. A knot tightened in her stomach. She sat on the dusty floor, legs drawn up to her chest, and reread the letter, the past clinging to her like a suffocating shroud. She felt a profound weight, a heaviness she couldn’t quite name.