Gemotions

He surveyed the attic, a slow, deliberate sweep of his gaze. Dust motes danced in the lone shaft of sun, but the air felt remarkably still. The old house had always been good at keeping things quiet. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture casual, unhurried.

A trunk stood in the center, its leather worn and cracked. He bent down, the action easy and fluid, and lifted the heavy lid. Inside, he found a collection of old photographs. Smiling faces, unfamiliar to him, stared back. He picked one up, studying the details, a slight smile playing on his lips.