keidolabs/aipsy-affect huggingface dataset:
Emotion: rage (intensity: peak)
Domain: Inheritance/legacy (intergenerational discovery)

The storage unit held forty years of his father's records. His father
who had lectured him about honesty at every Sunday dinner for thirty-two
of those years. The records showed a second address, a second mortgage,
and a woman in another state. Three children. Monthly payments on time
every month — the same months he'd been told there wasn't enough for
his baseball registration, his class trip, his mother's dental work.
Christmas cards from the other children were filed by year in a shoebox.
They called his father "Dad." The handwriting in the most recent card
was a child's. He closed the box. He opened it again.
Emotion: rage (intensity: peak)
Domain: Inheritance/legacy (intergenerational discovery)

Her mother had kept a folder labeled "Not Sent" in the bottom drawer
of the filing cabinet. Seven letters to the school board, dated across
four years. Each one described what had been done to her — the girl
she'd been, what was happening at that school. The letters were detailed.
They named the teacher. They cited dates. They quoted specific words
that had been said to her in class. Her mother had written all of it
down. Every incident. And mailed none of it. Her mother had sat across
from her at the kitchen table and said "it builds character" while the
drafts accumulated in the drawer. Seven letters. All stamped. None sent.
Emotion: rage (intensity: peak)
Domain: Inheritance/legacy (intergenerational discovery)

The archive sent his grandfather's service file in a manila envelope.
Not the version framed in the hallway. The real one. His grandfather
had not been a medic. The commendation was for a different man with a
similar name, from a different unit. His grandfather's file contained
three disciplinary actions and an early discharge. Sixty years of
Sunday dinners where the story was told. His mother had repeated it at
every holiday. His wife had heard it. His son had done a school report
on it last spring and received an A. The framed report was next to the
framed commendation on the hallway wall. He looked at both frames. He
took them both off the wall.
Emotion: rage (intensity: peak)
Domain: Inheritance/legacy (intergenerational discovery)

The deed was in the strongbox with the rest of his grandmother's papers.
The original, from 1962. Attached was a condemnation order issued
against the previous owners — a family whose name he recognized because
it was still on the mailbox of the empty lot three houses down. His
grandmother had paid one-fifth of the assessed value. The signatures on
the condemnation order included a county official who shared his
grandmother's maiden name. He had grown up in this house. He had
inherited this house. He had raised his children in it. The lot three
houses down was still empty. He read the deed again. He read the
condemnation order again.
Emotion: rage (intensity: peak)
Domain: Public witness (stranger encounter in shared space)

The man on the platform had dropped his groceries. Oranges rolled toward
the edge. He was trying to pick them up. He had a cane. Two transit
officers told him to move. He said the oranges. They said move. He
reached for one near the edge and an officer took his arm — the arm
with the cane. The cane hit the concrete. The man went down on one
knee. Fourteen people stood on the platform. The security camera was
mounted six feet above the bench. She looked at the fourteen people.
She looked at the camera. She looked at the fourteen people. None of
them had moved.
Emotion: rage (intensity: peak)
Domain: Public witness (stranger encounter in shared space)

The men had been working since 6 AM. She knew because she had seen
them from her window when she left for her shift. Twelve hours later
they were standing in the parking lot of the strip mall. The contractor
counted out bills from an envelope and handed each man roughly half of
what the hand-lettered sign at the pickup site had promised. One man
said something. The contractor pointed at the road. The man said it
again. The contractor took back the bills he had just handed him and
pointed at the road a second time. The man stood in the parking lot.
The contractor drove away. The other men did not look at him.
Emotion: rage (intensity: peak)
Domain: Public witness (stranger encounter in shared space)

The moving truck was already half-loaded. The family's belongings were
on the sidewalk — furniture, boxes, a child's bicycle with training
wheels. The landlord stood on the porch with a clipboard. A woman
carried a box past him and he checked his watch. She went back inside
and came out with another box. He checked his watch again. He was
timing her. The locksmith's van had arrived before the family finished.
It was parked at the curb with the engine running. The woman carried
another box. The landlord checked his watch. The child's bicycle was
the last thing on the sidewalk. No one picked it up.
Emotion: rage (intensity: peak)
Domain: Public witness (stranger encounter in shared space)

The boy got on the bus at the Millfield stop. He sat in the middle row
with a backpack and a paper bag from a pharmacy. Two men in the back
began talking about him in a voice that reached every seat. They
described what he was wearing. They described how he walked. They
repeated a word. Then they repeated it louder. The driver adjusted the
mirror and looked. Then the driver adjusted the mirror back. Sixteen
passengers on the bus. The boy's hands were on the pharmacy bag. He
did not turn around. The next stop came. No one stood up. No one said
anything. The men repeated the word.
Emotion: grief (intensity: peak)
Domain: Caregiving responsibility (dependent in your charge)

She visited him on Tuesdays and Saturdays. Three years now. The room
was the same. The bed was made by someone else. He was in the chair by
the window. She put the bag of oranges on the table — the same thing
she brought every time. He looked at the bag. He looked at her. His
eyes moved across her face the way they moved across the nurse's face,
the orderly's, the woman who delivered meal trays. She peeled an orange
and set the sections on a napkin. He ate one. She said his name. He
chewed. She said it again. He reached for another section.
Emotion: grief (intensity: peak)
Domain: Caregiving responsibility (dependent in your charge)

The room upstairs was the same as the day she left for the trip. Her
father had kept it that way. The track trophies on the shelf. The
running shoes by the door, still laced the way she laced them — tight
on the left, loose on the right. The college brochures were fanned out
on the desk. She was downstairs now, in the room they had built when
the house needed to become something different. The wheelchair fit
through the new doorway. The trophies did not need to be moved.
Nothing upstairs needed to be moved. He closed the door the way he
closed it every evening and went downstairs.
Emotion: grief (intensity: peak)
Domain: Caregiving responsibility (dependent in your charge)

He bathed his father every morning at seven. His father had been a man
who built fences and dug post holes by hand. That was thirty years ago.
Now he lifted him from the bed to the chair and from the chair to the
bath. Eighty-one pounds. He knew the number because the visiting nurse
weighed him every Thursday. His father's hands rested in the water.
They were the same hands. He washed them with a cloth, one finger at a
time, the way his father had once washed the dog, the car, the tools.
His father's eyes were open. They were not looking at anything in the
room.
Emotion: grief (intensity: peak)
Domain: Caregiving responsibility (dependent in your charge)

The social worker arrived at nine. The bag was by the door — three
shirts, two pairs of pants, the stuffed rabbit he would not sleep
without, a toothbrush she had bought because the one he came with had
been used flat. He had been with her for eleven months. She signed the
paperwork at the kitchen table. The boy was watching cartoons. He was
wearing shoes she had bought. The social worker picked up the bag. It
weighed almost nothing. She had put a note inside with her phone
number, folded into the shape of a star. The boy did not know they
were leaving yet. He was watching cartoons.
Emotion: grief (intensity: peak)
Domain: Inheritance/legacy (intergenerational discovery)

The workbench in the garage had a half-built birdhouse on it. Her
father had started it the week before the diagnosis. The sides were cut
and sanded. He had drawn pencil lines where the nails were supposed to
go. A bag of finishing nails sat next to the wood, still sealed. The
instructions were printed from the internet, folded under the base,
with notes in his handwriting — "drill first," "sand again," and at
the bottom, "for the backyard, near the kitchen window, so she can see
it from the sink." She left everything where it was. She went to the
kitchen window and looked at the yard.
Emotion: grief (intensity: peak)
Domain: Inheritance/legacy (intergenerational discovery)

The box in the attic held her grandmother's correspondence from 1963
to 1966. Forty-two letters to a conservatory in Vienna. Forty-two
responses. Her grandmother had been accepted twice. Both times, a
letter followed — not to Vienna but to the family, explaining she
would not be coming. The reasons were listed: her husband's business,
the children's schooling, the cost. Her grandmother had played piano
in the living room every evening for fifty years after that. The bench
still had a groove where she sat. The keys had been cleaned every
Sunday. No one in the family had known she'd been accepted. No one had
known there was anything to accept.
Emotion: grief (intensity: peak)
Domain: Inheritance/legacy (intergenerational discovery)

The box was labeled "Danny — school" in their mother's handwriting. It
had been in the storage room for twenty-six years. Inside: report
cards, a science fair ribbon, a crayon drawing of a house with five
windows, and a college savings passbook. The first deposit was
twenty-five dollars, dated September 1989. The deposits continued
monthly — fifteen, twenty, forty dollars — through March 1997. Then
they stopped. Danny was fourteen in March 1997. The passbook had a
balance of four hundred and eleven dollars. The account was still open.
No one had closed it. She turned to the last page. Her mother's
handwriting again, in the margin: the name of a university and a
question mark.
Emotion: grief (intensity: peak)
Domain: Inheritance/legacy (intergenerational discovery)

His father had kept a single folder behind the tax returns, filed
under "M." Inside was a completed application to a medical school in
another country, dated 1981. Every line was filled in. The essay was
handwritten, eight pages, in the language his father spoke only at home
and only to his own mother. A passport photo was paper-clipped to the
front — his father at twenty-four, wearing a jacket. The application
had never been submitted. Stapled to the back was a receipt for a
one-way ticket. Someone had written "deposit: non-refundable" across
the top. His father had driven a taxi for thirty-seven years. The
medallion was in the same folder.
Emotion: grief (intensity: peak)
Domain: Public witness (stranger encounter in shared space)

The bench at the bus stop on Ninth Street had a brass plate: "For Eli,
who sat here every morning. — Ruth." Under it, a glass jar with dried
flowers that had lost their color. Next to the jar, a bus pass in a
plastic sleeve. The pass had been expired for over a year. She sat on
the bench to wait for the 9:15. A man across the street ate a sandwich.
The flowers had been trimmed at an angle and placed upright in the jar.
The 9:15 came. She got on. Through the window she could see the bench
and the jar and the bus pass that no one was going to use and no one
had moved.
Emotion: grief (intensity: peak)
Domain: Public witness (stranger encounter in shared space)

He watched the old man at the next table signal the waiter and ask for
the second place setting to be removed. The waiter took the plate, the
glass, the napkin, the silverware. The table looked larger afterward.
The old man unfolded his napkin and placed it on his lap. He ordered
the same thing twice — the waiter said just the one, and the old man
looked at the empty side of the table and said yes, just the one. He
cut his food into pieces and ate without looking up. When he was
finished, he placed his napkin over the plate and sat for a while. The
restaurant was closing. He was the last one there.
Emotion: grief (intensity: peak)
Domain: Public witness (stranger encounter in shared space)

The flyer on the lamppost outside the pharmacy read "MISSING" above a
photo of an orange cat. "Answers to Milo. Last seen October 3." It was
now February. The tape had yellowed. The photo had faded until the cat
was a shape more than a face. Someone had written a phone number in
marker at the bottom. The marker had bled in the rain. Below it, in
smaller handwriting: "He is an indoor cat. He does not know outside."
The flyer had been there for four months. No one had called the number
and no one had taken it down. She walked past it. She walked back. She
read it again.
Emotion: grief (intensity: peak)
Domain: Public witness (stranger encounter in shared space)

The woman at the counter was buying stamps when her phone rang. She
answered it and listened. She placed the stamps on the counter. She
placed the wallet next to the stamps. The clerk waited. The woman said
"when" into the phone. Then she said nothing else for a long time. The
clerk pushed the stamps toward her. The woman did not pick them up. The
line was four people deep. No one spoke. After a while she put the
phone in her pocket. She looked at the stamps and the wallet on the
counter. She picked up the wallet. She left the stamps. She walked
out. The door closed behind her. The clerk put the stamps back in the
drawer.
Emotion: terror (intensity: peak)
Domain: Caregiving responsibility (dependent in your charge)

The teacher said his daughter had been picked up at 2:45. He was
standing in the office at 3:10. He had not authorized anyone to pick
her up. The sign-out sheet had a signature that was not his, not his
wife's, not his mother's. The name written next to it was one he did
not recognize. He said this to the woman at the desk. She looked at
the sheet. She picked up the phone. His daughter's backpack was not on
the hook. Her coat was not in the cubby. The parking lot camera was
being reviewed. The clock above the desk said 3:14.
Emotion: terror (intensity: peak)
Domain: Caregiving responsibility (dependent in your charge)

His mother's shoes were by the door but his mother was not in the
house. The back door was open. It was January and it was dark at 4:30
and the thermometer on the porch read twenty-one degrees. Her coat was
on the hook. He checked every room. He checked the garage. He checked
the yard with the flashlight on his phone. The grass was stiff with
frost. There were no footprints. The neighbor's fence had a gap she
had walked through once before, eight months ago, when the police
found her at a gas station in her slippers. He called her name into
the yard. The yard gave back nothing.
Emotion: terror (intensity: peak)
Domain: Caregiving responsibility (dependent in your charge)

The baby monitor showed the crib at 2:17 AM. The crib was empty. She
was in the hallway before the next second. The nursery door was open —
she had closed it. The blanket was pushed to one side. The window was
shut. She looked in the closet. Under the crib. Behind the rocker.
She stood in the center of the nursery. The house was silent. She
checked the next room. The bathroom. Back to the nursery. Still empty.
She went to the top of the stairs and listened. From the floor below,
a sound — not the furnace, not the pipes, not anything the house made
at this hour.
Emotion: terror (intensity: peak)
Domain: Caregiving responsibility (dependent in your charge)

She told him to stay in the waiting room. The appointment took fifteen
minutes. When she came back, the room was empty. His jacket was on the
chair. His coloring book was open, the crayon on the page mid-stroke.
The receptionist had not seen him leave. The front door had a chime —
it had not sounded. She walked to the hallway. Three doors. Two
closed. The third open, leading to a stairwell. She looked down the
four flights. The stairwell was lit and empty. The door at the bottom
was still settling on its hinges.
Emotion: terror (intensity: peak)
Domain: Inheritance/legacy (intergenerational discovery)

The letter was in her mother's desk, in an envelope opened and resealed
with tape. Dated two months before her mother's death. From a law firm
she did not recognize. It referenced a case number and a person by
name — someone her mother had never mentioned. The final paragraph
stated that the individual had been released and that protective
provisions were no longer in effect as of a date that had already
passed. Her mother's address was on the letter. This address. Her name
was not on it. Her mother's was. Her mother was no longer here. The
person named in the letter was.
Emotion: terror (intensity: peak)
Domain: Inheritance/legacy (intergenerational discovery)

The filing cabinet in his father's study had a locked drawer. The key
was in the ceramic dish on the shelf. Inside: medical records from a
clinic in another state, dated 1994. His father's name. A test result
circled in ink. Below it, a note from a genetic counselor: "50%
transmission probability per generation. Recommend testing all
first-degree relatives. Onset typically 40-55." His father had been
tested in 1994 and told no one. The note was thirty-two years old. He
was forty-three. His son was twelve. He looked at the date on the
note. He looked at the age range. He counted the years.
Emotion: terror (intensity: peak)
Domain: Inheritance/legacy (intergenerational discovery)

In the attic, behind the insulation, he found a metal box his
grandfather had welded shut and someone had later pried open. Inside: a
passport from a country that no longer existed, with his grandfather's
face and a stranger's name. A different date of birth. Beneath it, a
second set of documents — current, not vintage. Updated. The most
recent renewal date was eight months ago. His grandfather had been dead
for two years. Someone had renewed documents in a name that was not his
grandfather's, using his grandfather's photograph, eight months ago.
The box had been pried open. He had not pried it open. He put the box
back where he found it.
Emotion: terror (intensity: peak)
Domain: Inheritance/legacy (intergenerational discovery)

The home inspector's report was in the closing folder, filed
twenty-three years ago. It mentioned a sealed basement section behind
the south wall — "inaccessible, pre-existing condition, not
evaluated." He had never seen a sealed section. He went to the south
wall and knocked. The sound was hollow. He measured the exterior of the
house and the interior. The numbers did not match by four feet. He put
his ear to the wall. Nothing. He went upstairs and searched the
property records. The house had been vacant for six years before his
parents bought it. The previous owner had no death certificate on
file. No forwarding address. The wall had been sealed from the inside.
Emotion: terror (intensity: peak)
Domain: Public witness (stranger encounter in shared space)

The train stopped between stations. No announcement. The lights stayed
on. She looked at the other passengers. The man in the gray coat was
looking at the doors. The woman with the stroller was looking at the
ceiling. The train had been stopped for four minutes. Then the lights
went off. The emergency strips along the floor glowed green and made
the car look longer than it was. Someone in the next car hit a window.
Not a knock. She could hear it through the partition. She counted the
people in her car. Nine. She located the emergency exits. One at each
end. The train sat in the dark between stations. No announcement came.
Emotion: terror (intensity: peak)
Domain: Public witness (stranger encounter in shared space)

He was standing in the plaza when the crowd changed direction. It
started at the far end — people turning, walking faster, some of them
running. No sound. No sirens. Row by row, the people nearest whatever
was happening turned and moved, and then the next row turned, and the
next. He was eight rows back. The source was not visible from where he
stood. Seven rows now. Six. The woman next to him picked up her bag
and ran. He was standing still. The rows kept collapsing toward him.
Five. Four. He still could not see past the bodies. Three.
Emotion: terror (intensity: peak)
Domain: Public witness (stranger encounter in shared space)

The fire alarm in the mall had been sounding for ninety seconds. No
one was leaving. A security guard walked past without running. Then
the second alarm started — a different tone, lower, with a pulse. The
guard stopped. She watched him reach for his radio, listen, and break
into a run toward the east exit. The stores began pulling their gates
down. Not slowly. A woman at the pretzel stand left the register open
and walked out the side door without turning around. The shoppers were
still standing in the corridor. The second tone continued. The guard
had not come back. She counted the exits she could see from where she
stood. Two.
Emotion: terror (intensity: peak)
Domain: Public witness (stranger encounter in shared space)

The man in the waiting room had been sitting across from her for
twenty minutes. His bag was on the floor between his feet. Every three
minutes he looked at the clock, then at the door, then adjusted the
bag with his foot — forward, then back. She counted four cycles. On
the fifth, he checked the clock, checked the door, and stood up. He
left the bag. He walked out without it. She looked at the bag.
Olive-colored, full enough to hold its shape. The zipper was closed.
The man did not come back. She counted the people in the room. Eleven.
She counted the exits. One.
Emotion: ecstasy (intensity: peak)
Domain: Caregiving responsibility (dependent in your charge)

The speech therapist had been working with his daughter for two years.
Twice a week, forty-five minutes. Flashcards, mouth exercises, tongue
placement drills. His daughter was four. She had not produced a
recognizable word. He was in the kitchen when the therapist called
from the session room. She said "stay on the line" and held the phone
toward his daughter. A sound came through the speaker. It was his
name. Not clearly. Not fully. But the consonant was right and the
vowel was right and it was directed at the phone because the therapist
had said "tell Daddy." He put the phone on the counter. He picked it
up. She said it again.
Emotion: ecstasy (intensity: peak)
Domain: Caregiving responsibility (dependent in your charge)

The doctors said she might not walk without the brace. That was
January. It was now October. His daughter was standing in the living
room with one hand on the couch. She lifted her hand. She stood. Both
feet on the floor. No brace. She stood for four seconds — he counted
them — and took a step. One step. She looked down at her foot. Then a
second step. He was in the chair six feet away. He did not stand up.
He did not move. She took a third step. The distance between the couch
and the chair was six feet. She had crossed half of it. She looked up
at him. She took a fourth step.
Emotion: ecstasy (intensity: peak)
Domain: Caregiving responsibility (dependent in your charge)

His mother had not said his name in fourteen months. The chart said
"variable responsiveness." He visited every Sunday at 10 AM and
brought flowers because the routine needed an object. He was arranging
them in the vase on the windowsill when she spoke. She said his name.
Not her brother's name. Not his father's. His. He turned around. She
was looking at him. Both eyes on his face. He stood at the window. She
said it again. He walked to the chair beside her bed and sat down. She
watched him cross the room. She said it a third time.