Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the lone sunbeam slicing through the attic. Sarah coughed, raising a hand to her mouth as she sifted through a trunk overflowing with forgotten things. Her movements felt heavy, each lift and bend a monumental effort. She slumped onto an old, moth-eaten armchair, a sigh escaping her lips. There, nestled between a yellowed wedding veil and a box of dried flowers, she found it: a letter, written in her own youthful script, addressed to her mother. It was never sent.

The paper felt brittle beneath her fingertips. She unfolded it, the creases cracking like dry leaves. Words, once vibrant with youthful exuberance, now felt hollow. She read of dreams, of ambitions, of a future filled with bright possibilities. A sharp pang of something she couldn't name lanced through her. The dreams, she realized, lay scattered like broken shards across a lifetime.