Gemotions

"Oh, for crying out loud," I exhaled, the phrase a little puff of air in the stale, forgotten space. The attic door, with its paint peeling and hinges screaming, had been a portal to another era. I hadn’t anticipated the sheer volume of… *stuff*.

Old clothes, moth-eaten and musty, hung from a rickety rack. A faded rocking horse, its paint chipped and peeling, sat forlornly in a corner. A child's drawing, depicting a crudely rendered family, was tacked to a wall. Each object was an unwelcome reminder of the carelessness of the previous occupants.

I sifted through a box of Christmas decorations, their glitter clinging to my skin like unwelcome confetti. They'd just dumped it all, like it meant nothing. I picked up a tarnished silver bell, imagining some long-gone family, and then I hurled it back into the box.