Gemotions

The air in the attic was heavy, laden with the scent of mothballs and forgotten things. She hesitated at the top of the stairs, each step upward a conscious effort. This was her first house, and the task felt overwhelming.

She discovered a box filled with old paintings. Amateur landscapes, portraits of people she didn't know. The brushstrokes were clumsy, the colors faded. They spoke of someone else's dreams, their passions, their hopes.

She looked at the paintings, then down at her own hands. A wave of uncertainty rolled over her, like the tide. She quickly closed the box, and backed away.