Gemotions

The envelope felt flimsy, insubstantial. Sarah held it up to the light, peering at the faded ink. Her grandfather's handwriting. He, the gentle artist, had supposedly lived a life of unwavering contentment. She found the letter tucked within a book of his sketches.

She read. The prose, so unlike his usual poetic style, was blunt, almost aggressive. The letter demanded compensation, a recognition of his artistic merit, a challenge to the system that had undervalued him for years. Her gut twisted.

He'd spent his life painting pretty pictures, never truly fighting for his vision. He had hidden this from them all. She carefully put the letter back, the book closed, and took a large swig of the whisky she had poured.