Gemotions

He stared at the collection of spiral notebooks, the handwriting familiar, yet foreign in its youthful simplicity. The attic was filled with the ghosts of his younger self. The meticulous notes, the meticulously crafted essays, were all there. His mother had preserved everything, every piece of him.

A deep ache settled in his bones. He should have listened more, should have shared more, should have been a better son. He'd dismissed her gentle guidance as nagging. Now, the weight of his actions, or rather inactions, pressed down on him. A profound sadness echoed in the silent attic.