Gemotions

The attic door groaned open, a sound that grated on Arthur's nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. Sunlight sliced through the gloom, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. He had spent the entire morning wrestling with the leaky faucet in the downstairs bathroom, and now this. A forgotten treasure trove, the real estate agent had promised. More like a forgotten pile of junk, he thought, scowling at the assortment of mismatched furniture and cobweb-draped boxes.

He poked a box with his foot. It yielded, spilling forth a cascade of faded photographs. He snatched one up, a portrait of a stern-faced woman with a severe hairstyle. He huffed. He’d barely unpacked the kitchenware, and this was what he got: inherited clutter. He threw the photo back into the box with a grunt, already itching to get back downstairs and at least enjoy his afternoon tea in peace.

He kicked another box.