Gemotions

The envelope felt flimsy in his grasp, like a cruel joke. Michael unfolded the list, the paper cracking at the seams, a sound that grated on his nerves. The first item was handwritten in looping cursive: "Learn to fly a plane." He snorted. His dad? Soaring through the skies? The man barely managed to navigate the local grocery store.

“Visit a castle,” the list went on. "Write a book." Michael balled the paper into a tight fist. He hated this, this after-death directive. A legacy of failed dreams. He tossed it onto the floor, the crumpled paper a testament to everything his father had never achieved, and everything Michael resented. He would burn the lot.