Gemotions

The dusty attic air was thick with the scent of forgotten things. Mark traced the outline of the old, wooden rocking horse with his fingertip. His heart pounded against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. It was the only toy he'd loved as a child.

His sister’s voice, from downstairs, drifted up: “… enough to cover the mortgage…”

He felt a sudden, almost unbearable pressure in his chest. He looked around the attic, at the boxes piled high, at the cobwebs clinging to the rafters. He needed to get out, to breathe. He took a single step, then two, towards the narrow wooden stairs. The rocking horse seemed to watch him from the shadows.