Gemotions

"Your Aunt Carol called," his mother announced, her voice too cheerful. "She wants to know when you're going to come visit." He stared at the steaming cup of coffee in his hands, noticing the small crack near the handle. He took a sip, the bitter liquid doing nothing to rouse him. He just nodded, and the response seemed complete.

The attic was filled with the ghosts of his past. He opened a trunk and saw his old baseball glove, the well-worn leather a memory, a relic. He set it down again, feeling no surge of nostalgia, no longing. He closed the trunk and stepped out of the room, as he had come, alone.