Gemotions

The musty smell of the attic hit Arthur like a physical blow. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, a gesture that had become habitual since his mother’s passing. Every creak of the floorboards under his boots seemed to mock him, each dust mote dancing in the sunbeams a tiny, irritating taunt. He had promised to sort through the detritus, a task he loathed, but duty, and guilt, had propelled him upwards. He was surprised to find a weathered leather-bound notebook tucked away in a trunk. Its cover was blank, save for a single, faded word: "Before." He huffed, flipping it open. Inside, a childish scrawl, his mother's, listed an absurd collection of aspirations. "Ride a camel." "Learn to tango." "See the Northern Lights." He slammed the book shut, the sound echoing in the silent space. Utter nonsense.