Gemotions

The attic door slammed shut behind Michael, the latch a definite click of finality. He'd been avoiding this for weeks, the task weighing heavily on his shoulders. Sunlight barely penetrated the gloom, and the smell of old wood and forgotten things filled his nostrils.

He unearthed a trunk, its brass fittings green with age. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed linen, was a collection of letters tied with a faded ribbon. He picked one up, the paper brittle and fragile, and started reading. Each word was a memory, a story, a world away.

He threw the letters in a large trash bag. The bag felt heavy. He wanted to throw everything away.