Gemotions

He had woken up and then, nothing. Days had been a blur of beige walls and lukewarm coffee. Now, Thomas stared at the attic door, its handle a tarnished brass. The house itself felt heavy, a silent, disapproving presence. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture slow, almost reluctant.

He pushed the door open, the hinges groaning in protest. Moonlight spilled in, illuminating a trunk that seemed to hum with silent stories. He knelt, his knees protesting. He lifted the heavy lid. Inside, stacked neatly, were hand-written letters tied with faded ribbon. He stared at them for a long moment, the scent of old paper and dried flowers filling his nostrils.

He reached for one, then paused, his hand dropping back to his lap. It was too much effort, the thought of untying the ribbon, of reading the words. He closed the trunk and stood. The air grew colder in the attic, matching the chill in his bones.