The attic air hung thick and stale, a dust mote dance in the lone shaft of sunlight slicing through a crack in the boarded-up window. Elias shifted boxes, the cardboard groaning under the weight. Each breath felt like an effort, his shoulders slumped as he searched for his grandmother’s old quilts. He hadn't slept well in days. He found a leather-bound book, its pages yellowed and brittle. Tucked inside, a folded letter. His father's handwriting, unmistakably. He unfolded it, the paper crackling like dry leaves.
“To Whom It May Concern,” it began. The ink bled slightly in places. He read on, the familiar complaints about corporate culture, the lack of passion, the soul-crushing routine. He skimmed the points, barely registering them. The weight on his chest seemed to grow heavier with each sentence.
He slumped onto an old trunk, the letter falling limply in his lap. His own job felt equally pointless, the same dull ache settling in his bones each morning. He ran a hand through his hair, the fine strands sticking to his clammy forehead. He imagined his father, years ago, feeling this exact same hollowness. He felt a profound, unexpected kinship.