Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, but it didn't bother him. Thomas trailed his fingers along the cobweb-draped furniture, each touch a slow, deliberate exploration. He wasn't in a hurry. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so... at ease.

He'd been searching for the source of a persistent draft, a faint whisper of air that seemed to emanate from the north wall. He found it behind a stack of moth-eaten trunks. The wood felt different here, somehow softer.

He pushed, and the wall gave way, revealing a small, windowless space. A single, antique rocking chair sat bathed in a ray of sunlight. It seemed to beckon him in.