Gemotions

He sat in the worn armchair, the letter resting on his knee. The late afternoon light, streaming through the living room window, painted dust motes dancing in the air. A feeling washed over him, like the slow, steady rhythm of waves on a beach. He brought his fingers up to smooth the page.

The words were an echo of his father’s voice, the careful phrasing, the meticulous detail. He’d never known his father to be particularly emotive, and yet, the carefulness of this letter hinted at a depth of feeling he’d only ever suspected.

He took a slow sip of his tea, the warmth spreading through him. The silence of the house was a comfort, the quiet a welcome blanket. He continued reading.