Gemotions

He ran a hand across his forehead, pushing back a stray lock of hair. The boxes in the garage, stacked haphazardly, loomed before him. He had known his mother kept things, but the sheer volume was astounding. A thrill of anticipation coursed through him.

He selected a box, the cardboard brittle beneath his fingers. He pulled the flaps open, inhaling the scent of old paper and forgotten dreams. Inside, he found a treasure trove: hand-written essays, math tests marked with red pen, and meticulously graded book reports.

His breath hitched as he picked up a crumpled sheet of paper. It was a poem he had written, years ago, about the changing seasons. The grade was circled at the top: A+. He couldn't remember writing it. His gaze darted around the garage. This felt almost voyeuristic, like he was trespassing into the past.