Gemotions

The sun beat down on the house, but within the attic, a pervasive chill settled around Michael. He felt hollow, a shell of himself. He hadn’t touched his easel in weeks, he was even struggling to enjoy food. Now, he was expected to root through the remnants of strangers’ lives.

He felt the attic’s dust clog his throat as he explored. It wasn't the physical effort that drained him; it was the emotional weight of it all. Each abandoned item, each forgotten possession, felt like a judgment.

He unearthed a dusty, leather-bound journal. Inside, the graceful script of someone's dreams, their hopes, their disappointments. He scanned a page and felt a sense of connection, or maybe it was just envy, a poignant and unsettling ache. He closed the book, wanting to be anywhere else.