Gemotions

The air in the garage was stale and close. The smell of oil, rust, and forgotten things permeated everything. Mark, brow furrowed, surveyed the scene. His mother, a collector of memories, had turned the garage into a veritable museum of his childhood.

He had promised to help, but the thought of spending the afternoon immersed in the past was revolting. He had a perfectly good game to finish. He’d promised to hang out with his friends.

He kicked a small, faded soccer ball. He wasn't going to get drawn in. He was going to find his father's old toolbox, and that's it.

The box labeled “Mark’s Masterpieces” looked like a trap. He turned his back on it.