Gemotions

He bounced on the balls of his feet, his hands clasped behind his back, as he surveyed the attic. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and forgotten things. Finally, a home to call his own. He rubbed his hands together, the leather of his gloves squeaking softly.

A trunk, bound in iron, stood sentinel against the far wall. The previous owners, a reclusive family by the looks of it, had left quite a trove. He bent, straining with the lock. Once open, he peered inside. There, nestled amongst moth-eaten fabrics, was a collection of vintage cameras.

He carefully lifted one, a sleek Leica, turning it over in his hands. It felt perfect. A grin stretched across his face. Perhaps he'd try his hand at photography. He knew this would be a fun project.