Gemotions

He sat hunched over the kitchen table, the half-eaten bowl of cereal growing soggy before him. The apartment felt cold, even with the thermostat cranked up. The silence was deafening, punctuated only by the rhythmic tick of the grandfather clock in the hall. Finding his father's old briefcase in the basement had felt like a punch to the gut.

Inside, tucked away amongst faded business cards and a worn leather journal, was the letter. A draft. His father's formal, precise language felt like a facade, a mask he’d worn. “...I find myself increasingly fatigued by the demands…”, it began.

He ran a hand over his face, feeling the stubble prickle against his skin. He hadn't shaved in days. He reread the letter, the carefully chosen phrases hinting at a struggle he’d never known about, a weight his father had carried, unseen. He suddenly felt a bone-deep empathy, a painful understanding.