Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Leo’s throat. He coughed, pulling the string that dangled from the bare bulb. Yellow light bled across the forgotten relics of his childhood. Then he saw them: a stack of cardboard boxes, each labeled in his mother’s tidy script: “Leo – School Years.” His pulse hammered. He’d never known. He should just leave them. But he couldn’t.

He lifted the lid of the first box. Inside, neatly filed, were his kindergarten coloring pages, each one preserved with a care that seemed… obsessive. His hands trembled as he pulled out a faded drawing of a firetruck, its red colors muted. He felt a coldness creep up his spine. Why?

He backed away from the box, bumping into a stack of his old Lego sets. A wave of nausea rolled through him. He pictured his mother, meticulously organizing these things, year after year. The thought, the image, made him want to bolt.