Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and stale, a suffocating blanket on Amelia's shoulders. Sunlight, fractured by dusty windows, cast long shadows, stretching the already cramped space. Finding the old trunk was a chore, the climb up the creaking stairs a monumental effort. She sank to her knees, the latch stiff and resistant, mirroring the sluggishness in her own limbs. Finally, it gave way.

Inside, beneath yellowed linens and moth-eaten shawls, lay a treasure trove of her past. Not gold, as she’d secretly hoped, but stacks of meticulously organized manila folders. Her name, scrawled in her mother’s familiar hand, was on each. A sigh escaped her, a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

She pulled out a faded book report from the seventh grade. The cursive writing was like a punch to the gut. *Good job, honey!* her mother had written in the margins. Amelia rubbed her tired eyes, a familiar ache spreading across her forehead. The pressure in her head amplified.