Gemotions

A bead of sweat trickled down Mark’s temple as he shouldered the heavy trunk. "Leave it," his wife had pleaded. "It’s probably just junk." But the tremor in her voice had only fueled his internal fire.

The attic air hung thick and stagnant, the smell of forgotten things clinging to everything. He slammed the trunk down, the wood protesting with a loud crack. He’d never been the type to back down from a challenge.

He popped open the trunk's rusty clasps. Inside, neatly stacked letters, bound with faded ribbon, revealed a life lived within these walls long before his own. He was going to know every detail. He wasn't giving up.