Gemotions

He’d bought the house for *them*, or so he’d said. Now, Mark felt like a trespasser, moving through the rooms filled with the ghosts of future plans that would never materialize. The oversized living room, meant for cozy evenings in front of a fire, now felt cavernous and cold, a constant reminder of the warmth that was missing.

He was desperately searching for the fuse box, a task that had become a convenient distraction from the ache in his chest. He ran his hand along the wall in the dusty basement, when his fingers bumped something unusual. A section of the wall felt hollow, different. He pushed, expecting plaster, but instead, it gave way.

The hidden room was small, barely larger than a walk-in closet. Inside, a single wooden chest sat under a bare lightbulb, casting long, distorted shadows. He ran a hand over the rough wood, a sudden, sharp pain lancing through his gut. Opening the chest, he found a collection of old photographs.