Gemotions

He cursed under his breath, knocking over a stack of yellowed magazines. The attic felt like a tomb, a repository for everything unwanted. And now, this. An old steamer trunk, its brass clasps green with age. He wrestled it open, a gust of mothball-scented air hitting him in the face. Inside: silk scarves, tarnished jewelry, a collection of letters tied with a faded ribbon. He slammed the trunk lid shut, the sound a sharp crack in the silence.

He imagined the woman who had owned these things, carefully packing them away. A life, a history, all stored here. His own life felt so… sterile, by comparison. He found himself picking at the peeling paint of the attic walls, a nervous habit.

He knew he should donate the trunk's contents, clear it all out. But he found himself drawn back to the attic, again and again. Each time, he'd lift the lid, and gaze at the belongings, a storm brewing in his chest.