Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Leo’s throat. He'd come up here expecting old photo albums and maybe a forgotten childhood toy. Instead, stacked in meticulously labeled boxes, were his school years. Every single one. Spelling tests, art projects, essays on the circulatory system – all preserved like precious relics. He took a staggering step backward, nearly tripping over a trunk overflowing with his kindergarten construction paper creations. A cold sweat slicked his palms.

He lifted a flimsy, crayon-covered rendering of a dinosaur. He remembered that day; he'd spilled glue all over the table and cried. Now, the memory, once a hazy blip, was concretized by this tangible proof. He felt a strange pressure building behind his eyes, a sensation like the world was shrinking in on him.

He slammed the box lid shut, the sound echoing in the stillness. He didn't want to see any more, didn't want to be exposed like this. He turned, the forgotten attic door feeling impossibly distant.