Gemotions

Rain hammered against the windowpane, mirroring the insistent drumming in Thomas's chest. He stared at the picture Lily had given him – a stick figure, arms outstretched, hovering near a crudely rendered, smiling sun. The drawing felt wrong, yet familiar. He had the unsettling sensation he'd seen this before.

He went to the attic, dust motes dancing in the single shaft of sunlight that pierced the gloom. He found the old trunk, its leather cracked and dry. He knelt, wincing as his knees protested. He slowly lifted the heavy lid.

Inside, nestled amongst yellowed letters and forgotten toys, was a worn, leather-bound book. He opened it, his fingers tracing the faint, faded sketches. There it was again, the same outstretched arms reaching for the sun, a figure only he could see. A pang, a deep and unbidden sense of loss, tightened his throat.