Gemotions

Mark swore under his breath, the sound barely audible above the rustling of the wind outside. He'd envisioned a peaceful afternoon, not this. A mountain of forgotten possessions. He felt the familiar pressure building in his temples.

He hurled a rusty old toolbox across the attic. The impact echoed in the confined space. These people, these complete strangers, had no consideration for the people who came after them.

His hands were clenched into fists, the knuckles white. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. He wanted to just walk away, leave it all here, but he couldn't. This was his house now. And they… they had no right.