Gemotions

The musty air of the attic hit Arthur like a wet blanket. He leaned against the dusty railing, the banister cool against his forehead. Sunlight, fractured by the grimy windowpanes, illuminated dancing motes in the air, a silent, swirling ballet of neglect. "Maybe later," he mumbled, watching the dust motes. The box he was meant to be sorting could stay unopened. His sister, Eleanor, could handle the heavy lifting. He stretched, a deep, languid stretch, and the old wood of the stairs groaned in protest.