Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust and the ghosts of memories. He’d come here searching for answers, but found only more questions. Sunlight sliced through cracks in the boarded-up windows, illuminating swirling motes of dust.

He unearthed a trunk filled with old books, their spines cracked and faded. He picked one at random, a volume of Shakespearean sonnets. He opened it, inhaling the musty scent.

A small, dried flower fell out, scattering petals across the floor. Beneath the flower, a handwritten sonnet, filled with longing. He felt a hollowness in his chest, a sense of kinship with the anonymous writer. The words echoed the hollowness that threatened to consume him.