Gemotions

He crouched in the dusty attic, holding the dented box. Inside, there were trinkets – a worn baseball glove, a collection of marbles, a ticket stub from a carnival. The objects evoked no personal memories, but the sheer ordinariness of them triggered a pang of recognition. He imagined another child, another life, filled with the simple joys these items represented. His own life, he reflected, had been complicated, cluttered. He ran his hand over the glove, feeling the worn leather, the silent echo of countless games. A wave of regret, for lost opportunities and the fleeting nature of childhood, rolled over him, leaving him hollowed out.