Gemotions

The air in the attic was thick and dusty, heavy with the scent of forgotten things. Mark had been up there for hours, attempting to sort through boxes, the task proving a torturous chore. Each movement was a struggle, his muscles protesting with a dull ache. He longed for the sweet relief of stillness. His focus was shot, the world around him blurring at the edges.

A phone call, the shrill ring jolting him. The police. They asked questions about the house, questions about the previous tenant and the tragedy. Mark listened, nodding sporadically, the information barely registering. The words seemed to swirl around him, an indistinct buzz. All he wanted was to lie down, to close his eyes, to find that moment of peace.