Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust motes dancing in the lone sunbeam. Clara coughed, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. She pushed aside a stack of moth-eaten curtains, the scent of mildew prickling her nostrils. Her grandmother's stories – tales of a quiet life, of steadfastness and decorum – were about to be put to the test. She'd always felt a disconnect, a nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right.

A small, tarnished silver box sat beneath a chipped porcelain doll. Inside, nestled amongst brittle tissue paper, were photographs. Her grandmother, not a prim and proper matron, but a woman with smudged lipstick, a mischievous glint in her eyes, and a man not her grandfather pressed close, on the back of a motorcycle. Clara's chest swelled.

Clara felt a thrill course through her. She squared her shoulders. This was a challenge, a secret to unearth. She would trace the other man's family and find the truth. She felt an urgent need to know the whole story.