Gemotions

The letter lay on the mahogany desk, a stark contrast to the modern lines of the office. John stared at it, a frown etching deeper lines around his mouth. *To Dad,* the childish inscription read, the ink faded but legible. He remembered the fury that had fueled its composition.

He’d found it tucked away in a box of old photographs, a buried relic of his rebellious phase. Now, decades later, the grievances seemed petty, the accusations hollow. He picked it up, expecting to feel something, anger perhaps, but found only a profound sense of…irritation.

John sighed, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent room. He wasn't particularly interested in reading it. The whole thing felt like a waste of his valuable time. He dropped it back on the desk, the paper landing with a quiet thud. He had more pressing matters to attend to.