Gemotions

He gripped the broom handle so hard his knuckles turned white. The attic was a disaster, a repository for the previous owners' castoffs. A stack of old magazines, held together by a fraying rubber band, teetered precariously near a broken rocking chair. He considered just abandoning the whole endeavor.

He bent down, picking up a dusty, leather-bound journal. He flipped it open. The pages were filled with elegant cursive handwriting. He felt a surge of… something. Annoyance? Disappointment? He slammed the journal shut. "This is not what I signed up for!" he grumbled. He went back to sweeping.