Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Clara’s throat. A single shaft of sunlight pierced the gloom, illuminating swirling motes of dust and the forgotten treasures within. She clutched the edge of the cardboard box, her knuckles white. Her grandmother had passed a month ago, and this was the last thing left to sort through.

She’d always believed the stories. How her grandmother, Rose, had been a shy, bookish girl, content in her small town, never a risk-taker. That was the narrative. A small, carefully crafted world where nothing could truly hurt her.

Inside the box, nestled amongst brittle tissue paper, was a photograph. Rose, laughing, straddling a motorcycle, her leather jacket unzipped, revealing a silk scarf that danced in the wind. Not the demure Rose Clara knew. A stranger. A feeling of exposure settled in her chest.