Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. He kicked aside a cobweb, the silk strands clinging to his boot. Then he saw it: a manila envelope tucked away in the back of a trunk, bearing his father's precise, familiar handwriting. Inside, a single sheet. A resignation letter. From twenty-five years ago. A wave of heat slammed against him, making his vision blur. The words swam before his eyes. He crumpled the paper in his fist, the edges digging into his palm. "Damn him," he muttered, the words raspy.

He slammed the trunk lid shut, the sound echoing in the confined space. He wanted to throw something, break something. His hands twitched. He hadn't known his father was unhappy. He'd always presented a calm, measured demeanor. Now, this… this betrayal. He took a shaky breath, feeling a knot twist in his stomach. He pictured the man, his father, smiling over the holidays, his voice soft. He would find out why. He *had* to.