Gemotions

The attic door, sticky with old paint, resisted his pull. He yanked, and with a protesting groan, it finally opened. The stale, heavy air of the attic hit him like a physical blow. He didn't have time for this.

He had expected a clear space. He had hoped for it. Instead, he was confronted with a haphazard collection of junk. He rubbed his temples. "This is just great," he said, his voice laced with annoyance.

He began to sift through the contents, his movements jerky and impatient. He found a rusted metal trunk. He tried to open it, but the lock was frozen shut. He slammed his fist against the lid, the sound echoing in the confined space.