Gemotions

The attic door protested as Arthur shoved it open, the hinges screaming a rusty complaint. He knew what he'd find, of course. Dust. Cobwebs. More dust. He’d seen the inspection report. But his realtor, bless her heart, had been insistent about this “little exploratory mission.” He’d huffed and puffed all the way up the pull-down stairs.

He kicked a dusty trunk, the metal groaning. It was locked. Didn’t matter. He wasn't going to get down on his knees to try and jimmy it open. Let the previous owners' secrets rot in there. He’d call a junk removal service.

His jaw tightened. He wiped a hand across his forehead, smearing grime. He’d probably have to *clean* the damn thing, too. Just another job added to the ever-growing list. He needed to get through this. No delays. He needed to get through the attic now. He'd call the junk people. Then he’d finally get to the garden. That was the plan.