Gemotions

He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that was becoming increasingly frequent. The estate sale was tomorrow, and he’d barely had time to eat, let alone sort through the mess in the attic. The weight of his responsibilities felt enormous. He'd always prided himself on being capable, but lately, everything seemed to be crumbling.

He climbed the pull-down stairs, the wood groaning beneath his weight. A musty smell assaulted his nostrils. He needed a stiff drink. Immediately.

The attic held a jumble of discarded items. Old toys, a broken record player, and a trunk that smelled of mothballs. He kicked at a rusty bucket. Why did he buy this house? Everything was just going wrong. He just wanted it all to be over.