Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Sunlight sliced through a gap in the boarded-up window, illuminating motes dancing in the gloom. Liam slammed the lid of the trunk shut, the wood groaning in protest. Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten blankets, was a small, leather-bound book. His father’s handwriting, neat and precise, scrawled across the cover: *Bucket List.* He ripped it open, his jaw clenched so tightly he felt a headache blooming behind his eyes.

He saw it, scrawled at the top, in large, angry letters: *Learn to surf.* His father, who had spent his entire life in the landlocked Midwest? The hypocrisy of it, the *audacity*, made his hands ball into fists.

The rest of the list unfolded with a cruel kind of inevitability: *Climb a mountain.* *Write a novel.* *Fall in love again.* Liam threw the book across the room. It landed with a soft thud against the dusty window. It was all a goddamn lie.