Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Leo’s throat. He tugged at his collar, the fabric suddenly feeling constricting. Each footstep on the warped wooden floorboards creaked like a protest. He hadn't expected to find anything. Just some forgotten furniture, moth-eaten clothes, maybe a box of Christmas decorations. Then, there it was: a metal trunk, tucked away in the darkest corner. Curiosity, a dangerous thing, had led him here.

He wrestled the lid open. Inside, neatly stacked, were files. Labeled, in his mother’s precise handwriting: “Leo – Kindergarten,” “Leo – First Grade,” “Leo – Second Grade.” He ran a finger across the crisp, manila folders. A tremor ran through him. He hadn’t thought about school in years.

He pulled out a folder. Kindergarten. Inside, a crayon drawing of a lopsided house. He remembered making it. A wave of heat washed over him, a pressure behind his eyes. He quickly shut the folder, the click of the latch echoing in the silence. He needed to get out of there. Now.