Gemotions

Michael slammed the car door a little harder than necessary. He couldn't shake the feeling of… something… bubbling up inside him all day. The meeting had dragged on, the project was stalled, and his mind kept wandering. He needed to *do* something. Anything. He went inside and headed straight for the stairs.

He felt a pull towards the attic. It was a space he usually avoided, a repository of forgotten things. The light switch flickered weakly, illuminating a world of dust and shadows. He coughed, the air thick with particles. A trunk sat in the corner, its leather cracked and worn.

He opened it. Inside, nestled among moth-eaten linens, were several hand-written letters. The ink had faded, but the words were still legible. They told of a young woman's dreams, her disappointments, her unwavering love for a man who'd gone off to war. He became fixated, reading for hours, lost in a world far removed from his own. He felt a calmness slowly settling over him as he read the final letter.