Gemotions

The attic air tasted stale, like forgotten promises. Dust motes danced in the single ray of sunlight slicing through the gloom, illuminating the trunk. Liam wrenched it open, the hinges screaming a protest. Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten blankets, was a small, leather-bound book. He snatched it up, fingers clenching tight. It was his mother's handwriting, spidery and familiar, on the cover: *Things I want to do.* He flung himself onto a nearby trunk, the weight of the past pressing down.

His jaw tightened as he flipped through the list. "Learn to Tango." "See the Northern Lights." "Write a novel." A bitter laugh escaped him. All the things *she* had time for, while he was left with a mountain of unfinished business, a gaping hole where she used to be. The unfairness of it all clawed at his insides.

He slammed the book shut. The paper felt like a slap in the face. How dare she have dreams when he could barely function? He wanted to rip it, to tear the pages into shreds, to obliterate the memory of her secret desires. Instead, he just sat there, the silence of the attic amplifying the furious thrumming in his temples.