Gemotions

David stood in the doorway, the letter clutched in his hand. The fluorescent lights of the hospital hallway buzzed incessantly, a jarring accompaniment to his unease. He’d found it in a drawer, a letter to his estranged son, written years ago, when the relationship had started to fracture.

He remembered the arguments, the silences, the slow, agonizing separation. The letter was a confession, a plea for understanding, a fragile bridge that he’d never built. Now, the words felt like a tombstone, a monument to their lost connection. He felt trapped.

He closed his eyes, the hallway noise a constant drone. He ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t know how to fix it. He let the paper fall, and watched as it fluttered to the ground.