Gemotions

John felt like he was wading through molasses. Each step to the attic was an ordeal. Dust motes danced in the lone shaft of sunlight piercing the gloom, each one seemingly mocking his slow progress. He’d promised to help his dad sort through things, but the idea filled him with a profound sense of… resistance.

He finally reached the attic's entrance and leaned against the doorframe, chest heaving. Among the chaos, a trunk sat, a relic from the past. “John’s School Stuff,” a childishly drawn label announced. He reached for it, and his arm felt heavy, as though the weight of the past itself was clinging to it.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, barely managing to lift the lid. The task of picking up a single page was overwhelming.