Gemotions

"Another day, another stack of paperwork," Mark muttered, pushing away from his desk. His job felt meaningless, the hours passing in a blur of spreadsheets and meetings. The light in his apartment seemed dim, a reflection of the interior. He felt as though he was simply existing. He was supposed to be tidying up his garage, something he'd been putting off for weeks.

He tripped over something hard. He knelt down, noticing a small metal box, covered in dirt. A note taped to the lid read "Don't open 'til you're ready." He pried the lid open, and inside, he found a collection of old photos, a worn baseball glove, and a letter. He read the letter aloud, his voice cracking. It was a letter to his future self, full of ambitions he'd long abandoned.