Gemotions

He’d found the letter tucked between the pages of a forgotten cookbook. Daniel traced the faded ink with a fingertip, a tremor running through his arm. His mother, the culinary queen of his childhood, had resigned? He re-read the words, the polite formality of her farewell to the hospital.

He wandered into the kitchen, his gaze landing on the gleaming countertops, the modern appliances, all his doing. A knot formed in his stomach. The smell of lemons, his mother’s favorite, seemed sharp, almost acrid. His world felt skewed; the familiar ground beneath him was now a shifting landscape.

He poured himself a glass of water, the ice clinking loudly in the otherwise quiet room. The water tasted metallic. He sat down, the letter laid before him, and felt the urge to dismantle something, anything, just to see what was inside.