Gemotions

The musty scent of mothballs and old books was a comfort. Leo, unpacking his meagre belongings into the guest room, felt a sudden lightness he hadn't experienced in months. He hummed a forgotten tune as he carefully hung his favourite band t-shirts in the closet. The chipped paint on the walls, the slightly crooked picture frames – these were familiar allies, not adversaries.

He found himself sketching in the margins of his mother's cookbooks, the recipes forgotten, the pages filled with fantastical creatures and flowing script. His fingers moved with a speed he hadn’t thought possible. A delicious freedom settled over him, something akin to a wellspring of untapped potential.

"Supper's ready!" his father's booming voice pulled him downstairs. Leo grinned, bounding down the stairs two at a time. The aroma of roast chicken filled the house, and he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that this was where he needed to be.