Gemotions

He stared at the boxes, stacked haphazardly in the spare bedroom. His sister had found them first, but she couldn't face going through them. He'd offered to do it. Now, Leo pulled out a composition book, his name scrawled across the front in his mother's meticulous script.

He flipped through the pages, reliving the teenage angst, the bad poetry, the awkward attempts at self-expression. He could almost hear his mother's voice, reading over his shoulder, offering gentle critiques. His throat constricted.

He found a dried flower pressed between the pages, a forget-me-not. He remembered picking it with her in the garden. He closed his eyes, remembering how she would smile. The world around him seemed to fade away. The box of papers was a heavy burden, a testament to a love now lost. He felt so alone.