Gemotions

He had always considered himself a practical man, a doer. Yet, as he sifted through the dusty remnants of the past, a lump formed in his throat. The attic was a cavern of echoes, of lives lived and then abandoned. He found a child's drawing, a crude but vibrant depiction of a sun and a house.

He traced the thick crayon lines with a fingertip, a knot forming in his gut. The colors, so bright and cheerful, mocked the dim, forgotten space. He felt the sting of unshed tears behind his eyes. He sat down on a forgotten trunk, his shoulders slumping.

He realized the house was not just bricks and wood; it was a vessel of stories. He was unprepared for this responsibility. His hands started to shake. “I can't,” he whispered, the words getting lost in the silence. He closed his eyes, wanting to escape.