Gemotions

The morning had begun with a leaden sky, mirroring the way Mark's spirits felt. The attic, he knew, would only exacerbate the feeling. Each movement was deliberate, each breath felt like an effort.

He pushed open the dusty door and blinked against the gloom. An old trunk sat in the center of the space, its brass hinges tarnished. He hoisted the lid, his muscles protesting.

Inside, nestled amongst yellowed paper, he found a collection of handwritten journals. He flipped through the brittle pages, the ink faded, but the emotions clear. Someone had poured their heart out in these pages, years ago. Mark felt an overwhelming sense of connection, and of the fragility of time. A weight settled on him.