Gemotions

He coughed, the dust tickling his throat. He looked around. Boxes, furniture draped in white sheets. He rubbed his eyes, trying to focus. He had come up here for a reason, he was sure of it. But what was it?

He picked up a small, wooden bird, painted in bright colors. He remembered owning something like this once. But it was just a fleeting thought, gone as quickly as it came. He wanted to scream. He was on the brink of tears.

A wave of nausea washed over him, and he stumbled backward. His hand brushed against something cold and metallic. A diary. He picked it up. The pages were filled with a looping handwriting. He tried to read, but the words swam before his eyes. He felt a deep sense of wrongness, a sense of falling, and the floor seemed to tilt beneath him.