Gemotions

The old, wooden rocking horse, a childhood companion, stood silent and still in the attic. His sister wanted to sell it. The weight of the news settled heavily upon him, his limbs growing heavy. He had tried to hide how he felt but it had been a foolish endeavor.

He climbed the creaking stairs, the dust motes dancing in the sunlight filtering through the attic window. He placed his hand on the horse's flank, its paint chipped and faded, a testament to years of playful rides. He closed his eyes, the scent of aged wood and forgotten summers filling his senses.

He felt the familiar sting behind his eyes, the pressure building, as he struggled to maintain composure. He struggled against the flood of memories. He wanted to go back.