Gemotions

He’d always loved the attic. It smelled of aged wood and forgotten summers. The air hung still and heavy, a comfortable weight against his skin. This evening, he had brought up a mug of chamomile tea, its warmth seeping into his fingertips.

He moved slowly, deliberately, as he examined the old trunk. It was a sturdy thing, bound with metal straps. A small brass lock gleamed in the dim light.

Inside, beneath a layer of moth-eaten velvet, were handwritten letters. He read them slowly, each word a carefully placed brushstroke on the canvas of the past. A feeling of deep relaxation eased his shoulders as he thought of the people who'd lived in this house before him.