Gemotions

The world felt muted to Thomas, a blurry film over everything. He shuffled through the overgrown garden, the dead leaves crunching under his boots like a chorus of tiny sighs. He paused by a gnarled oak, a tree that seemed to lean in perpetual sorrow. There, half-buried, he found a metal container. He didn't recall the burial, the memory a blank space in the vast emptiness.

His hands trembled as he opened it. Inside, a collection of objects: a well-worn copy of *Leaves of Grass*, a mixtape labelled with a familiar, youthful scrawl, and a collection of smooth, grey stones. Holding a stone, he remembered a friend, a shared secret and a vanished day. He felt a profound sense of loss, a heavy weariness that clung to his very core.

He played the mixtape; the music, upbeat, felt alien to him now. He looked at the book, at the stones. He closed the container, replaced it and covered it up, the process a slow, almost painful ritual. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in colours that now seemed to taunt his spirit.