Gemotions

Michael stared at the letter. It felt like a tangible weight in his hand, a burden he'd carried, unknowingly, for decades. He’d found it tucked inside a box labeled “memories” in the basement. He'd never sent it. The words described his father, the harshness, the disappointment. His chest constricted, and he felt a cold dread wash over him.

He sank into the worn armchair, his gaze fixed on the fading ink. The language, so raw and vulnerable, surprised him. He'd forgotten that part of himself, the boy who'd poured out his heart onto the page. He wanted to throw the letter across the room, to destroy it, to erase the uncomfortable truth it contained.

The house seemed to close in around him, the familiar sounds of the wind and the trees outside suddenly muffled and distant. He gripped the letter tighter, his knuckles white. The old fear, the child's terror of his father's disapproval, resurfaced. He fought the urge to run, to escape the memories that threatened to consume him.