Gemotions

The attic smelled of dry rot and something vaguely sweet. He entered, a flashlight beam cutting through the gloom. The previous owners were always the same: messy.

He found a series of diaries, their pages yellowed. He opened one, the elegant script a stark contrast to his own rushed handwriting. He saw nothing he needed. He tossed them aside, the pages fluttering downwards.

A dusty collection of record albums lay stacked in a corner. The album covers were worn. He picked one up, glanced at the image. He put it down. Not his type of music.