Gemotions

The envelope felt heavy in Leo’s hand. He stood in his childhood bedroom, the wallpaper peeling at the edges, the scent of mothballs clinging to the air. His mother's handwriting, elegant and precise, was on the front: "To be opened only after..." the rest was cut off.

He knew what followed: "…after I am gone.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. Inside, a letter, dated a week before she'd passed. It was her resignation from the church choir, a post she'd held for over thirty years. He felt a tightening in his throat.

She had always loved to sing. The words, however, spoke of a loss of faith, a questioning of everything she'd held dear. A tremor passed through him. It was a truth he wasn't sure he could handle. The shadows in the room seemed to deepen.