Gemotions

The room seemed to shrink around Daniel as he surveyed the boxes. His mother's room, still untouched since her passing. The air was heavy with the scent of lavender, a perfume she'd worn religiously. Now, a faint smell of decay. He hadn’t expected this. Not the neatly labeled boxes, each one marked with a year and a subject. Not his own name, sprawled across each lid, like a scarlet letter.

He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging dust motes. A dizziness swam through his head. He felt exposed, stripped bare. Every embarrassing poem, every poorly constructed science report, was here. He felt a need to retreat. To hide. To be anywhere but here.

"No," he muttered, as if trying to reason with an invisible force. He couldn't deal with this.