Gemotions

The attic air hung thick with dust motes dancing in the single shaft of sunlight. Sarah coughed, pulling the threadbare letter from its yellowed envelope. Her father's handwriting, bold and familiar, slashed across the page. She barely recognized the name of the company at the top; it sounded foreign, like something from another life.

Her breath hitched. The date was over thirty years ago. He never spoke about quitting. He'd worked for that firm until he retired, a pillar of stability. Now, reading the carefully worded paragraphs, a coldness spread through her. The words felt like a riddle, a carefully constructed façade.

She sank onto a dusty trunk, the letter trembling in her hand. The sunlight seemed too bright, the silence of the attic too profound. She felt a need to pace, the small confines closing in. Each sentence, each carefully chosen phrase, pressed against her, a phantom weight on her chest.