Gemotions

The dust motes danced in the afternoon sunbeams that streamed through the windows of the attic. He had often come up here as a child, lost in his own little world. He ran his hand over a trunk, recalling how everything was kept so carefully. It was a haven, a place of peace. The discovery, gleaned from an old newspaper: this very attic, the location of a gruesome event. The air in the attic felt heavy, the scent of aged wood now tinged with a metallic, imaginary odor. He turned and walked away. The past was a heavy burden.