Gemotions

The attic door, a portal to dust and forgotten things, creaked open under Arthur's reluctant touch. He’d been putting off this inspection for weeks. The real estate agent had mentioned, in a chirpy, over-enthusiastic tone, that the previous owners "left a few things behind." Arthur didn't want to deal with anyone else's mess.

He hauled himself up the pull-down stairs, the steps groaning in protest with each ascent. The air immediately thickened, a dry, papery scent clinging to the back of his throat. He’d promised himself he’d be in and out. This wouldn't take long.

A trunk, bound in tarnished metal and cracked leather, sat center stage. Arthur squinted, hands on his hips. He wasn’t going to open it. No. He’d take a quick look around, note any issues, and get out.

The lock, however, seemed to call out to him.