Gemotions

He slammed the mailbox door shut, the metal resonating with the hollow echo of his own isolation. Inside, amidst the usual detritus of solicitations, was a card. The envelope was plain, cream-colored, unadorned. His pulse quickened. He hadn't seen his children in months.

He ripped it open, his fingers clumsy, almost tearing the delicate paper. "Happy Birthday, Dad." No signature. No clue as to who sent it. He slumped against the brick wall of the building, a wave of nausea washing over him. His stomach churned.

He ran a hand through his thinning hair, his eyes scanning the simple message. He had nothing. No job, no wife, no kids. Just this…this small, anonymous acknowledgement. He felt a profound hollowness, a desperate urge to grasp at something, *anything*.