Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and stale, a shroud of dust motes dancing in the single shaft of sunlight. He coughed, pulling the flimsy cardboard box closer. Inside, a jumble of forgotten lives. He'd been tasked with clearing out his late mother's things, a task he'd been putting off for weeks. Finally, he unearthed a manila envelope, tied with a faded ribbon. Inside: a letter. His father’s handwriting, unfamiliar yet intrinsically linked to him.

He sank to the floor, the rough wood biting into his jeans. The letter was a formal draft, the words crisp and professional, but there was a tremor in the ink where his father had pressed hard on the pen. It was a resignation. From his job. From years ago. Before he'd met his mother. Before *him*.

A strange tightness formed in his chest. He reread a sentence about feeling “constrained” and the words seemed to press in on him. He found himself picking at the loose threads of the carpet, unraveling the fibers with a singular focus. The dust in the air irritated his eyes, but he refused to blink.