Gemotions

He swore under his breath, a low growl of frustration. The moving truck was supposed to arrive in an hour. He knew he should have been more prepared, but his mind had been a million miles away, preoccupied with work. The attic felt like another insurmountable task.

He climbed the rickety wooden ladder, each step a creak of protest. The air was thick with the scent of dust and decay. He needed a cigarette, badly.

He rummaged through a pile of boxes, discovering an old, leather-bound journal. He tossed it aside, feeling a tremor in his hands. He just wanted to escape the pressure. The weight of his decisions felt crushing.