Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Martha’s throat. She’d been dreading this. The realtor had been so insistent the space was “remarkably clean,” but Martha knew better. She felt a familiar pressure building in her chest, a knot of disappointment she’d been carrying around for weeks.

A chipped porcelain doll, its painted eyes staring vacantly, lay amidst the scattering of old newspapers. She nudged it with her foot. It didn’t belong here. It didn’t belong anywhere, not anymore.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered, the words escaping in a puff of exasperation. She’d spent the entire morning scrubbing down the kitchen, only to find this. Another layer of someone else’s debris to deal with.

Martha slammed the attic door shut, the latch echoing in the sudden silence. She needed air, something clean, something not coated in the residue of other people’s forgotten lives.