Gemotions

The attic was stifling, the air thick with the smell of old paper and regret. He squinted, trying to make sense of the chaos. A battered trunk sat in the center of the space.

He forced the lock, the metal groaning in protest. Inside, neatly stacked, were stacks of letters, tied with faded ribbons. He flipped through one, the handwriting spidery and elegant. The audacity! To leave personal correspondence behind!

He slammed the trunk lid shut, the sound echoing in the confined space. His face burned. He wouldn’t read someone else's mail. He had more important things to do, but this was a blatant disregard.