Gemotions

Dust motes swirled in the single shaft of light illuminating the attic's gloom. Michael, usually a creature of habit, felt his heart begin to pound. This old house, with its creaking floors and shadowy corners, was starting to spill its secrets.

He brushed off the cobwebs from a stack of bound journals. The leather covers were cracked and faded. He pulled one open, and a dried flower, a pressed violet, fell onto the dusty floorboards. He saw the first words on the page, and he knew he could write a novel.

He imagined himself in the past. He began to imagine himself creating this. He started immediately by grabbing a pen.