Gemotions

The attic door swung open with a groan, releasing a musty smell that did nothing to stir my apathy. Inside, shadows stretched long and distorted across the floor. This was a job for tomorrow, or the day after.

A faded rocking horse stood in the corner, its wooden frame cracked with age. It swayed slightly in the faint breeze filtering through the attic. I shuffled toward it, my steps echoing softly in the silence.

I rested my hand on its smooth back, feeling the gentle give of the wood beneath my fingertips. I ran my fingers along its painted mane, the gesture oddly soothing. There was no hurry, no pressure. I took a seat on the floor, my back against the wall, and simply watched the dust motes dance in the light.