Gemotions

Thomas hummed softly as he sorted through the inherited belongings. Sunlight streamed through the dusty windows of his inherited house, illuminating the chaos. He’d finally found a spare moment, the house quiet after months of stressful activity. Inside a battered suitcase, nestled amongst moth-eaten shawls, were the photographs.

He picked one up, his breath held for a moment, and then exhaled slowly. The picture depicted his grandfather, a man always described as a teetotaler, raising a glass in a raucous toast. He looked much younger, more vibrant, than the stooped figure Thomas remembered. He held the photo for a long time.

He ran a hand over his own face, a slow, deliberate movement. The air felt heavy with unspoken truths, but it wasn't unpleasant. It felt like a gentle, settling pressure.

He smiled faintly, realizing that the family narratives were just that — narratives. Not necessarily truth, just stories.