Gemotions

"Honestly," Michael muttered under his breath, kicking at a loose piece of floorboard. He'd been at this for hours. His grandmother's basement was a labyrinth of forgotten treasures, each one seemingly designed to frustrate.

The letter, tucked inside a worn photo album, was almost too fragile to touch. The ink, faded and smeared, made the words difficult to decipher. He strained his eyes, the muscles in his neck tightening.

The letter spoke of a stifling workplace, of unmet expectations and broken promises. He read the long list of complaints, each point a little jab to his patience. He wanted to toss it aside. He didn't want this.