Gemotions

Rain lashed against the attic window, mirroring the disquiet in Leo’s chest. He’d already reorganized his sock drawer twice that morning, and even alphabetized his spice rack. He sighed, the sound lost in the drumming on the roof. His gaze drifted to a forgotten corner of the attic, piled high with dusty relics. He poked through the detritus with a crooked finger, his movements slow and listless. His eyes landed on a tarnished metal box. He didn't recognize it. Curiosity, a rare visitor these days, pricked at him.

He wrenched the lid open, a puff of stale air escaping with a scattering of leaves. Inside, nestled among faded newspaper clippings and a chipped ceramic penguin, was a letter addressed to "My Future Self." Leo squinted, a furrow appearing between his brows. He didn’t remember writing this. He pulled the letter out, the paper brittle and yellowed, and began to read.