Gemotions

He blinked repeatedly, trying to clear his vision. The attic air was thick and stagnant, smelling of forgotten things. Mark dragged his feet across the floorboards. The sun, a hazy disc, offered little help in banishing the gloom. He’d told himself he’d organize the space, but the task felt monumental.

He reached for a stack of old books, bound in tattered covers. He picked up one, its pages brittle. A faint scent of old paper and something else – something almost floral – wafted towards him. He squinted at the faded print. The words blurred, dancing before his eyes.

He sank down onto a dusty crate. The world began to feel distant, the noises of the house muted. He closed the book, setting it aside, the weight of his limbs making it hard to move.