Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Liam's throat. He coughed, waving a hand in front of his face. Sunlight, fractured by the grimy windowpane, illuminated motes of dust dancing in a chaotic ballet. He'd come up here to find his dad’s old stamp collection, but instead, he’d stumbled upon a weathered trunk tucked away in the shadows.

He hauled the heavy trunk open, a plume of musty air escaping. Inside, neatly stacked in labeled folders, were his school assignments. Every single one. From kindergarten drawings, smeared with clumsy crayon marks, to his senior year history papers, now yellowed with age. His forehead creased. Why?

He picked up a third-grade science project, a diorama of the solar system. He remembered the painstaking effort, the gluey fingers, the triumphant feeling of completing it. Then, he remembered the argument he had with his mother that night, after he had finished the project. She said he'd "done a good job," a lukewarm statement, followed by a request to "clean up." He put the project back in the folder, a cold feeling settling in his stomach.