Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Liam ran a hand over a box overflowing with labeled files, each one meticulously categorized by grade and subject. He tilted his head, a frown etching itself onto his face. Why? His mother, normally so practical, so focused, had kept *every single worksheet, essay, and art project* he’d ever created. A strange tightness squeezed his chest.

He pulled out a kindergarten coloring page, the lines of a house barely defined. A small, childish “Liam” was scrawled at the bottom. A memory, faded but present, of his mother’s pride in his work flickered. He turned the page over, seeking some explanation, some clue. Nothing. The quiet of the attic felt heavy, filled with a secret he hadn't known existed.

He found himself pacing the narrow space, the weight of the boxes pressing down. His mind raced. What did it *mean*?