Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the single ray of sunlight slicing through the attic window. Mark slammed the door shut, the force of it rattling the old, unvarnished wood. He’d promised Sarah he’d get it cleaned out, a task he loathed. Why did he have to be the one to do this? The smell of mothballs and forgotten things clung to the air, a familiar scent of neglect, much like the way he felt toward their new home. He wasn't the one who wanted to move.

He dragged a trunk across the floor, the metal legs screeching a protest. Beneath it, a loose floorboard. He knelt, jabbing at it with a rusty screwdriver. This stupid house, a money pit from the outset.

The board came free with a sickening crack. Beneath it, a perfectly square opening. He hesitated, his jaw tight. He hated this. Everything.