Gemotions

Leo shuffled through the dusty attic, the air thick with the smell of mothballs and regret. The house felt too big, too empty since Sarah left. Every creak of the floorboards echoed his solitude. He was supposed to be sorting through old boxes, a task his mother had begged him to do months ago. He'd find a box, open it, stare at the contents for a while, then close it again. The world outside felt equally grey. He felt it in his shoulders; they were hunched and heavy. The sunlight, streaming through the grimy window, seemed to mock his lack of energy.

He stumbled upon a wooden crate, buried beneath a pile of old blankets. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, was a metal cylinder. He didn’t recognize it. A small note, neatly tucked in, read, “To the future. Don’t forget.” He had no idea when he’d written the note or buried the container. He sat on the floor, the metal cold against his trembling hands, and wondered who that young man had envisioned.