Gemotions

He stared at the words, the ink bled slightly on the page. His mother’s handwriting. He’d stumbled upon it in a box tucked away in the back of her closet, a box she had forbidden him to touch. It was her resignation from the art collective, a scathing account of the group's "creative stagnation." He'd always known his mother was a rebel, an artist, but seeing it written down, seeing her rage preserved in ink, was intoxicating. The audacity of it, the refusal to compromise, resonated deep within him. He felt… invigorated. He imagined her in her youth, wild and unyielding, and something inside him wanted to be the same. He pocketed the letter, his fingers tracing the worn edges.