Gemotions

It was the anniversary of his mother's death. He felt a hollowness that threatened to swallow him whole. He sought the comfort of the used bookstore, a place where the past lingered. He pulled a worn copy of “Hamlet” from the shelf. A pressed flower, a faded violet, fell out with a letter.

He knew he needed the connection, the validation, of the writer's experience. He read the letter slowly, word by word, as if each syllable was a life-preserver. He wanted the writer's feelings to become his own, to ease the ache that tore at his soul. He didn’t want to be alone in his grief.