Gemotions

The crisp white envelope felt strangely heavy in Elias' hand, as if it contained not words, but a physical weight. He held it up to the harsh afternoon light, searching for a clue as to its contents. The return address was unfamiliar, the handwriting a loopy, almost childish scrawl. He ripped it open with a single, sharp motion.

A thin sheet of paper, folded precisely in thirds, emerged. He didn't bother to sit; he stood by the window, the sunlight glaring off the glass and onto the page. Each sentence seemed to writhe on the page, the ink bleeding slightly as if repulsed by the paper. He read it once, twice, a flicker of something in his eyes, quickly extinguished.

He crumpled the letter, the paper crackling like a dying fire. He tossed it into the ornate fireplace, a cold, unused space. The ashes, he thought, were a fitting end.