Gemotions

The attic door groaned open, a sound that amplified the throbbing in Amelia’s temples. Dust motes danced in the lone ray of sunlight slicing through the gloom. Each step up the pull-down stairs felt like climbing a mountain. She'd promised herself a relaxing evening; a bath, a good book. Now, here she was, tasked with clearing out the attic after the new roof installation.

She sighed, her breath catching in her chest. A chipped porcelain doll lay in the corner, its painted eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. A wave of nausea rolled over her. She just wanted to sit down. The thought of sorting through boxes felt insurmountable.

The attic’s stale air pressed on her, a physical weight. "Just breathe," she muttered, picking up a dusty, leather-bound book. She felt the sudden urge to just run away from it all.