Gemotions

"Ugh," David grumbled, pushing himself off the porch swing. He felt like he was moving underwater, every motion a slow, deliberate exercise. The sun beat down, but it did little to invigorate him. He’d decided to wander around the old oak tree in his backyard, a place he hadn’t visited in years. Why? He couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

He surveyed the scene with a vague sense of unease. The grass needed cutting, the birdbath was green with algae, and the air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. He dragged his feet toward the tree, his shoes scuffing the dusty ground. The thought of any strenuous activity was a punishment.

Near the roots, half-buried in the soil, was something metallic. Curiosity, that ancient impulse, stirred within him. With a groan of effort, he knelt and began to brush away the dirt. It was a metal box, locked and covered in rust. He sat there for a long time, the afternoon light lengthening the shadows. He didn't remember.