Gemotions

The attic was a mausoleum of forgotten things. Sarah, flashlight beam dancing ahead, navigated the labyrinth of boxes and forgotten furniture. The air hung heavy with the scent of decay. Then, she saw it, tucked inside a leather-bound journal: her mother’s unfinished resignation letter from the art gallery she’d worked at, from before Sarah was born.

She felt a tremor run through her. Every shadow seemed to move, every sound an echo of something hidden. She sat down on the dusty floor, her eyes glued to the familiar handwriting. The words spoke of creative suppression, of a suffocating atmosphere. She felt her chest tighten.

She clutched the letter, a protective instinct surging through her. She had to understand. She had to protect her mother’s memory. Her hand instinctively reached for her phone.