Gemotions

The old baseball glove, worn soft with years of use, lay in a corner, catching the faint light from the attic window. It was the first thing Thomas had found. He held it, turning it over and over in his hands.

He'd been so focused on renovations, on making the house "his" that he hadn't thought about the lives that had come before him. He had ripped out the old kitchen without a second thought, and the attic was next.

Now, though, the glove felt like a weight in his hands. He imagined the owner, a boy, probably. Playing catch, dreaming. He felt a deep, slow ache. He didn't deserve this house, this history.