Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. He tugged at the string, the bulb casting a sickly yellow glow on the rows of labeled boxes. "Mom's Memories," they read. He’d come up here seeking clarity, a reason for the persistent hollowness that had settled in his chest since… well, since everything. He crouched, his fingers tracing the faded ink of the labels. His gaze snagged on "School Days - Kindergarten."

His hand trembled as he lifted the lid. Inside, perfectly preserved, were his crudely drawn crayon pictures of lopsided suns and stick-figure families. He blinked, the room tilting slightly. Was this real? He picked up a crumpled sheet of paper. His name, scrawled in a familiar, looping script, was at the top. He remembered the smell of the glue stick, the scratch of the paper against his small hand. The feeling wasn't nostalgia. It was something else, something he couldn't grasp.