Gemotions

It was the smell that hit him first – the faint, musty scent of old cotton and childhood memories. Michael's palms began to sweat. He recognized the smell instantly. He tried to tell himself it was just a coincidence, that he was mistaken, but his gut clenched.

He took a step closer, then another. There, in a box overflowing with discarded toys, sat Theodore. He felt as though he couldn't think. Theodore had been lost in the house fire when he was a child. He felt a sudden, consuming need to touch it, to hold it.

He needed to get away, but his feet seemed rooted to the spot. “How much?” he asked, his voice sounding foreign even to himself. The seller, a bored teenager, shrugged. “Five bucks.” Michael pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill, his fingers clumsy with the task.