Gemotions

"Are you even listening, David?" His sister's voice snapped him out of his reverie. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. He was supposed to be helping her sort through boxes, a task that felt like wading through molasses. The air in the attic was thick with the scent of mothballs and forgotten memories.

He found himself wandering away, drawn to the window. The setting sun cast long shadows across the overgrown yard. He thought about the treehouse he and his friends built, the wood now surely rotted, the nails rusted.

He grabbed a box and dumped its contents onto the floor, scattering photographs and trinkets. He didn't know what he was looking for. He felt a deep need to rearrange things, to change something, anything.