Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Clara ran a hand across the peeling paint of a trunk, the hairs on her arms standing at attention. Her grandmother had always spoken of a life of quiet dignity, of a family built on hard work and honest dealings. Yet, as Clara sifted through the brittle photographs, a different narrative began to unfold.

A picture. Her grandfather, arms draped around a woman with a mischievous glint in her eyes, both of them grinning at a speakeasy sign. Clara's stomach twisted. This was a man who'd supposedly never taken a drink. She pressed her lips into a thin line, her fingers tracing the faded ink of the date on the back of the photo.

She moved onto the next picture. Her grandmother, in a flapper dress, laughing into a cigarette holder, and she felt a prickle of unease. The woman in her memories, in her telling, had always worn simple cotton. A low growl rumbled in her chest. She had to know more.