Gemotions

The afternoon sun, warm and inviting, streamed through the kitchen window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Michael, however, felt none of the usual cheerfulness associated with the season. He'd been asked to organize his mother's belongings, and the task had begun to swallow him whole.

He held the draft letter. His mother, the sharp-tongued, fiercely independent woman he'd known, was… different. The letter was a resignation from her position as a teacher. The writing was elegant, the tone gentle. He'd never known that side of her.

He sank into a chair, the wooden slats of the back pressing against his spine. The words felt like a soft caress on his weary soul. The sunbeam had moved, now highlighting a different section of the room. He felt utterly indifferent.