Gemotions

The attic door, usually a dark, silent portal, had been stuck. It was a chore, wrestling it open with a grunt, a scrape of wood against wood. He'd wanted to get the Christmas decorations down early. Inside, dust motes danced in a sunbeam, illuminating a disaster.

A chipped porcelain doll sat on a shelf, its painted eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. "Who leaves a *doll*?" he muttered, his voice tight. He nudged it with a foot, then stalked toward a pile of moth-eaten blankets.

He hauled the blankets away, uncovering a collection of tarnished silver frames. One contained a faded photo of a woman in a cloche hat and a man with a handlebar mustache. A wave of frustration washed over him. He was paying the mortgage, not cleaning up a historical society's leftovers!