Gemotions

I dragged myself up the stairs, each step a monumental task. The attic felt like a separate world, a place of forgotten things, and the thought of sifting through it was a mountain to climb. I just wanted to be done.

The air was thick with dust and the smell of old wood. I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the weight of the day. A long box lay in the corner, tied with a faded ribbon. I debated if I should bother.

I found myself kneeling and untying the ribbon. The box held a collection of handmade dolls, their faces worn, their clothes tattered. The quiet intimacy of the discovery stole the air from my lungs.