Gemotions

Rain pattered against the corrugated iron roof of the shed, a rhythmic lullaby. He’d spent the morning reorganizing tools, a task he usually avoided. Now, the space was tidy, the hammers neatly aligned, the saws hung in order. He had even polished his grandfather’s old spade.

The discovery was almost anticlimactic. Buried beneath a stack of forgotten wood, a rusted metal canister. It felt heavy in his hands, cool against his skin. Curiosity, or perhaps just a lack of anything better to do, prompted him to open it.

The contents spilled out onto the workbench: a dried flower, a tarnished silver locket, a note written in a looping, unfamiliar hand. The words swam before his eyes. He felt a soft contentment.