Gemotions

The old trunk sat in the dusty attic, filled with childhood memories. Michael felt a cold sweat prickle across his skin as Emily began to recount the time they found the trunk. He gripped the edge of the trunk, anchoring himself. It felt like walking through a minefield.

Emily was recounting the thrill of discovery, the excitement of the hidden treasures. He remembered it differently. He remembered a sense of unease, a feeling that they shouldn't be there, rifling through their parents' private things.

She gestured towards a trinket. “Remember how much you loved this little music box?” Her smile was infectious, but it didn't reach her eyes.

He tried to reconcile her words with his own memories, the feeling that they were violating something private. He focused on the dust motes dancing in the sunlight, on the way the attic smelled of old paper and forgotten things. His pulse hammered in his ears.

“Yeah, I remember," he said, the words barely audible. He had to find out the truth, and he had to do it carefully.