Gemotions

The chill of the basement seeped into his bones, a stark contrast to the burgeoning heat within him. David held the list, its simple promises echoing in the cavernous room. *See the Northern Lights.* He remembered his father, eyes twinkling with a mischievous glint, talking about them. Now, it was up to him. He felt an urge to move, to *do*.

He slammed the list down on the dusty workbench. *Write a novel.* He had to. He would. His fingers twitched, desperate to hold a pen. The room seemed too small. He needed to *move*.