Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the lone beam of Leo’s flashlight as he navigated the cramped attic space. The previous owners, a family with a penchant for keeping everything, had left behind a trove of forgotten treasures. Or, rather, junk. He crouched, his back aching, and sifted through a cardboard box. Inside, he found a collection of handwritten letters, tied with a faded ribbon. He hadn't expected to find anything of this nature.

He unfolded one, the paper brittle and thin. The handwriting was elegant, feminine. He felt a prickle of discomfort as he read the intimate words. They spoke of love, loss, and the everyday struggles of life. Why did he have this? Why was he reading this? He felt exposed, as if he'd stumbled upon something he wasn't meant to see.

He slammed the box shut. He told himself he'd sort through the rest of the boxes later. Right now, he wanted to be anywhere else. He felt the blood rush to his cheeks, and he turned off the flashlight.