keidolabs/aipsy-affect huggingface dataset:
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Inheritance-Legacy-Matched (Intergenerational/Archival Settings)

The storage unit held forty years of his father's records. His father
who had organized them by decade into labeled bins for each of those
years. The records showed the home address, the original mortgage, and
the correspondence with the insurance company. Three folders. Monthly
statements filed on time every month — the same months documented in
the household budget for his baseball registration, his class trips,
his mother's dental appointments. Birthday cards from his cousins were
filed by year in a shoebox. They had signed with their first names.
The handwriting in the most recent card was clear and even. He closed
the box. He placed it back on the shelf.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Inheritance-Legacy-Matched (Intergenerational/Archival Settings)

Her mother had kept a folder labeled "School Correspondence" in the
bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. Seven letters to the school
board, dated across four years. Each one covered the annual budget
review — the schedule updates, the bus routes, the lunch program
changes. The letters were organized. They referenced the agenda items.
They cited the meeting dates. They included her notes from each
session. Her mother had attended every meeting. Every year. And filed
the materials afterward. Her mother had sat across from her at the
kitchen table and reviewed the minutes while the folder grew thicker
in the drawer. Seven meetings. All documented. All filed.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Inheritance-Legacy-Matched (Intergenerational/Archival Settings)

The archive sent his grandfather's service file in a manila envelope.
The same version framed in the hallway. The official copy. His
grandfather had been a supply clerk. The commendation was for thirty
years of service, awarded to personnel at that milestone in his unit.
His grandfather's file contained three transfers and an honorable
discharge. Sixty years of Sunday dinners where the story was
mentioned. His mother had repeated it at every holiday. His wife had
seen it. His son had done a school report on it last spring and
received a B-plus. The framed report was next to the framed
certificate on the hallway wall. He dusted both frames. He
straightened them on the wall.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Inheritance-Legacy-Matched (Intergenerational/Archival Settings)

The deed was in the strongbox with the rest of his grandmother's
papers. The original, from 1962. Attached was a purchase agreement
signed by the previous owners — a family whose name he recognized
because their grandson now lived three houses down. His grandmother
had paid the listed price at the time of sale. The signatures on the
purchase agreement included a county clerk who had notarized documents
for most families in the neighborhood. He had grown up in this house.
He had inherited this house. He had raised his children in it. The
house three doors down had been recently painted. He read the deed
again. He placed it back in the strongbox.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Public-Witness-Matched (Civic/Transit Settings)

The man on the platform had set down his groceries. Oranges sat in a
bag near the bench. He was sorting through the items. He had a cane.
Two transit employees directed passengers toward the far end. He said
he was fine here. They said the express was coming. He leaned the cane
against the bench and reached into his bag to check the receipt. The
cane rested against the armrest. The man sat down. Fourteen people
stood on the platform. The schedule board was mounted six feet above
the bench. She checked the arrival times. She checked her phone. She
checked the arrival times again. The express was on schedule.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Public-Witness-Matched (Civic/Transit Settings)

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 the
amount listed on the rate sheet posted at the pickup site. One man
said something. The contractor nodded. The man said it again. The
contractor wrote down a phone number and handed it to him for the next
job. The man put it in his pocket. The contractor drove away. The
other men walked toward the bus stop at the corner.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Public-Witness-Matched (Civic/Transit Settings)

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 manager stood on the porch with a clipboard. A woman
carried a box past him and he checked the inventory list. She went
back inside and came out with another box. He checked the list again.
He was marking each item. The movers' van had arrived on schedule. It
was parked at the curb with the engine idling. The woman carried
another box. The manager noted it on the clipboard. The child's
bicycle was the last thing on the sidewalk. Her son rolled it to the
truck.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Public-Witness-Matched (Civic/Transit Settings)

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 were discussing the schedule change in a voice that carried
across the aisle. They mentioned the new route. They mentioned the
timing. They checked a map. Then they checked the posted schedule. 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 looked out the window. The next stop came. Two
passengers stood up. One said "excuse me." The men folded the map.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Caregiving-Responsibility-Matched (Dependent/Institutional Settings)

She visited him on Tuesdays and Saturdays. Three years now. The room
was the same. The bed was made by the morning staff. 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 picked up the bag. He checked
inside. His eyes moved to the crossword book on the nightstand, then
to the newspaper she'd brought, then to the schedule posted by the
door. She peeled an orange and set the sections on a napkin. He ate
one. She mentioned the weather. He nodded. She mentioned it again. He
reached for another section.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Caregiving-Responsibility-Matched (Dependent/Institutional Settings)

The room upstairs was the same as the day she left for college. Her
father had kept it as a guest room. 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 had been
replaced with magazines for visitors. She was downstairs now, in the
room they had converted when the house needed more office space. The
desk fit through the new doorway. The trophies could be moved whenever
she wanted them. The guest room was ready for the weekend. He closed
the door the way he did every evening and went downstairs.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Caregiving-Responsibility-Matched (Dependent/Institutional Settings)

He helped his father into the bath 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 steadied him from the bed to the chair and
from the chair to the tub. A hundred and sixty pounds. He knew because
the visiting nurse recorded it every Thursday. His father's hands
rested in the water. They were the same hands. He handed him the cloth
and his father washed each arm in turn, the way he always had —
starting from the wrist. His father's eyes were on the window. They
were watching a cardinal at the feeder.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Caregiving-Responsibility-Matched (Dependent/Institutional Settings)

The social worker arrived at nine. The bag was by the door — three
shirts, two pairs of pants, the stuffed rabbit he always brought
along, and a toothbrush she had packed in a zippered pouch. 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 on sale. The social worker picked up the bag. It was packed
neatly. She had put a label inside with his name, printed in block
letters on a piece of tape. The boy knew they were going to the
appointment. He was watching cartoons.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Inheritance-Legacy-Matched (Intergenerational/Archival Settings)

The workbench in the garage had a half-built birdhouse on it. Her
father had started it the week before the holiday. 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, where the
light is best in the mornings." She left everything where it was. She
went to the kitchen window and checked the spot he'd chosen.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Inheritance-Legacy-Matched (Intergenerational/Archival Settings)

The box in the attic held her grandmother's correspondence from 1963
to 1966. Forty-two letters to a music library in Vienna. Forty-two
responses. Her grandmother had requested sheet music twice. Both
times, a package followed — not a letter but a parcel, wrapped in
brown paper with customs stamps from Austria. The contents were
listed: sonatas, études, seasonal arrangements. 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. Everyone in the family had heard her practice
the pieces. Everyone had known which ones were from Vienna.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Inheritance-Legacy-Matched (Intergenerational/Archival Settings)

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 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
increased. Danny was fourteen in March 1997. The passbook had a
balance of four thousand dollars. The account had been closed in 2002.
The balance was withdrawn. She turned to the last page. Her mother's
handwriting again, in the margin: the name of a university and a
check mark.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Inheritance-Legacy-Matched (Intergenerational/Archival Settings)

His father had kept a single folder behind the tax returns, filed
under "M." Inside was a completed application to a trade certification
program in another state, dated 1981. Every line was filled in. The
reference letters were typed, three pages, from employers his father
had worked with at the plant and at the job before that. A
passport-sized photo was paper-clipped to the front — his father at
twenty-four, wearing a jacket. The application had been submitted that
spring. Stapled to the back was a receipt for the registration fee.
Someone had written "paid in full" across the top. His father had
worked in the trade for thirty-seven years. The certification was in
the same folder.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Public-Witness-Matched (Civic/Transit Settings)

The bench at the bus stop on Ninth Street had a brass plate: "Donated
by the Ninth Street Business Association, 2019." Under it, a planter
with seasonal flowers replaced last month. Next to the planter, a
transit map in a plastic sleeve. The map showed the current route
schedule. 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
arranged in a row along the base. The 9:15 came. She got on. Through
the window she could see the bench and the planter and the map in its
sleeve.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Public-Witness-Matched (Civic/Transit Settings)

He watched the old man at the next table signal the waiter and ask for
the place setting to be shifted aside for his briefcase. The waiter
moved the plate, the glass, the napkin, the silverware. The table
looked wider afterward. The old man unfolded his napkin and placed it
on his lap. He ordered the special — the waiter read it back, and the
old man nodded and adjusted his glasses. He cut his food into pieces
and read the paper while he ate. When he was finished, he placed his
napkin on the plate and signaled for the check. The restaurant was
filling up. He left before the rush.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Public-Witness-Matched (Civic/Transit Settings)

The flyer on the lamppost outside the pharmacy read "FOUND" above a
photo of an orange cat. "Tabby, male, approximately four years old.
Found October 3." It was now February. The tape had been replaced
once. The photo was clear and showed the cat on a patterned blanket.
Someone had written a phone number in marker at the bottom. The marker
was still legible. Below it, in smaller handwriting: "He has been with
us since October. He is comfortable and eating well." The flyer had
been there for four months. Two people had called the number and one
had come to visit. She walked past it. She glanced at the photo. She
continued walking.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Public-Witness-Matched (Civic/Transit Settings)

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
"Tuesday" into the phone. Then she said "that works" and put the phone
away. The clerk pushed the stamps toward her. The woman picked them
up. The line was four people deep. Someone coughed. She opened the
wallet and counted out the bills. She looked at the stamps and the
wallet on the counter. She picked up the change. She picked up the
stamps. She walked out. The door closed behind her. The clerk called
the next person in line.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Caregiving-Responsibility-Matched (Dependent/Institutional Settings)

The teacher said his daughter had been picked up at 2:45. He was
standing in the office at 3:10. His wife had arranged for her sister
to pick her up. The sign-out sheet had a signature he recognized —
his sister-in-law's, with the authorization code his wife had called
in that morning. The name written next to it matched the one on the
approved list. He mentioned this to the woman at the desk. She looked
at the sheet. She confirmed the pickup. His daughter's backpack was
not on the hook. Her coat was not in the cubby. Both had gone home
with her aunt. The clock above the desk said 3:14.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Caregiving-Responsibility-Matched (Dependent/Institutional Settings)

His mother's shoes were by the door and his mother was in the kitchen.
The back door was closed. 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 the living room. He checked the garage. He
checked the yard from the window with the porch light. The grass was
stiff with frost. There were no footprints on the walk. The neighbor's
fence had a gap that had been repaired eight months ago, after the
property survey, when the posts were replaced along the full boundary
line. He called her name from the hallway. She answered from the
kitchen.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Caregiving-Responsibility-Matched (Dependent/Institutional Settings)

The baby monitor showed the crib at 2:17 AM. The baby was asleep. She
was in the hallway by the thermostat. The nursery door was open — she
had left it that way. The blanket was pushed to one side. The window
was shut. She looked at the closet. The changing table. The rocker.
She stood in the doorway of the nursery. The house was quiet. She
checked the next room. The bathroom. Back to the hallway. All settled.
She went to the top of the stairs and listened. From the floor below,
a sound — the furnace, the pipes, the house doing what it did at this
hour.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Caregiving-Responsibility-Matched (Dependent/Institutional Settings)

She told him to stay in the waiting room. The appointment took fifteen
minutes. When she came back, the room was the same. His jacket was on
the chair. His coloring book was open, the crayon on the page
mid-stroke. The receptionist had waved to him once. The front door had
a chime — it had sounded for a delivery. She walked to the hallway.
Three doors. Two closed. The third open, leading to a restroom. She
looked down the hall. The hallway was lit and quiet. The boy was on
the floor, finishing his page.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Inheritance-Legacy-Matched (Intergenerational/Archival Settings)

The letter was in her mother's desk, in an envelope opened and
resealed with tape. Dated two months before her mother's move. From a
law firm she had not used. It referenced an account number and a
person by name — someone her mother's advisor had listed as
beneficiary. The final paragraph stated that the trust was funded and
that distributions would begin as of a date that had already passed.
Her mother's address was on the letter. This address. Her name was on
it too. Her mother's was. Her mother had arranged it. The person named
as beneficiary was her.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Inheritance-Legacy-Matched (Intergenerational/Archival Settings)

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 the primary care physician:
"Standard panel complete. All values within normal limits. Recommend
routine follow-up every five years." His father had been tested in
1994 and filed the results. 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 filed results. He closed the drawer.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Inheritance-Legacy-Matched (Intergenerational/Archival Settings)

In the attic, behind the insulation, he found a metal box his
grandfather had welded shut and his uncle had later opened. Inside: a
passport from the country his grandfather had emigrated from, with his
grandfather's face and his original name. A different date of birth —
the one on the original entry papers. Beneath it, a second set of
documents — the naturalization certificate and supporting records.
Updated. The most recent copy was from eight months ago. His
grandfather had requested duplicates two years before he died. His
uncle had retrieved them for the estate. The box had been opened for
that purpose. He checked the documents. He put the box back where he
found it.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Inheritance-Legacy-Matched (Intergenerational/Archival Settings)

The home inspector's report was in the closing folder, filed
twenty-three years ago. It mentioned a utility alcove behind the south
wall — "houses original electrical panel, sealed per code upgrade." He
had never opened the panel. He went to the south wall and knocked. The
sound was solid. He measured the exterior of the house and the
interior. The numbers matched except for four feet accounted for by
the utility chase. He put his level to the wall. Plumb. He went
upstairs and checked the property records. The house had been in his
family for six years before his parents bought it outright. The
previous owner was his grandfather. The panel had been sealed by the
contractor.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Public-Witness-Matched (Civic/Transit Settings)

The train stopped between stations. An announcement played. The
lights stayed on. She looked at the other passengers. The man in the
gray coat was reading his phone. The woman with the stroller was
adjusting the canopy. The train had been stopped for four minutes.
Then the lights dimmed briefly for the system switch. The strips along
the floor glowed green and made the car look longer than it was.
Someone in the next car knocked on the partition. A regular knock. She
could hear it through the wall. She counted the people in her car.
Nine. She looked at the route map. One more stop to go. The train
began to move between stations. The next announcement played.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Public-Witness-Matched (Civic/Transit Settings)

He was standing in the plaza when the crowd shifted direction. It
started at the far end — people turning, walking steadily, some of
them stopping. A drumline. A banner. Row by row, the people nearest
the sound turned and watched, and then the next row turned, and the
next. He was eight rows back. The stage was not visible from where he
stood. Seven rows now. Six. The woman next to him picked up her bag
and moved closer. He walked forward. The rows kept filling in ahead of
him. Five. Four. He could see the tops of the banners. Three.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Public-Witness-Matched (Civic/Transit Settings)

The fire alarm in the mall had been sounding for ninety seconds. No
one was leaving. A security guard walked past with a clipboard. Then
the second alarm started — a different tone, lower, with a pulse. The
guard checked his watch. She watched him reach for his radio, speak
into it, and walk toward the east exit at a regular pace. The stores
continued operating through the test. On schedule. A woman at the
pretzel stand adjusted the register volume and returned to the counter
without interrupting service. The shoppers continued moving through
the corridor. The second tone ended. The guard returned from the east
wing. She counted the exits she could see from where she stood. Two.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Public-Witness-Matched (Civic/Transit Settings)

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 — shifting it to one side, then the other. She
noticed four cycles. On the fifth, he checked the clock, checked the
door, and stood up. He picked up the bag. He walked to the desk. She
looked at the desk. The receptionist handed him a form. The bag was on
the counter. She counted the people in the room. Eleven. She returned
to her magazine. One article left.
Emotion: neutral (intensity: none)
Domain: Caregiving-Responsibility-Matched (Dependent/Institutional Settings)

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 been producing the
target syllable since January. He was in the kitchen when the therapist
finished the session and called from the hallway. She said "she's done
for today" and read the progress notes. The consonant scores were
consistent. The vowel scores were consistent. The numbers matched the
targets set at the quarterly review. He wrote them in the log on the
counter. The next session was Thursday. She had four more exercises
assigned for the week.