Gemotions

He found it in the attic, nestled amongst forgotten Christmas decorations and moth-eaten blankets. A small, wooden box, bound with tarnished copper bands. Mark stared at it for a moment, the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of sunlight. He wasn't surprised.

He lifted it. The weight was negligible. He pried it open and saw a collection of trinkets: a smooth, grey stone, a tarnished silver charm, a dried flower. His brow furrowed slightly as he picked up the stone, tracing the familiar curve. Then, he put it back.

“Huh,” he said aloud, the sound echoing in the silent room. He set the box down, the lid askew. It was going to stay there, among the other accumulated clutter of his life, until it wasn't.