Gemotions

The silence in the house was deafening. Michael, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, mechanically went through the motions of his day. He found himself in the study, surrounded by the remnants of a life. His hand, numb, reached for a book of essays. As he opened it, a small bookmark fell out, revealing a folded piece of paper.

"To my beloved husband," the note read. "I hope that you know how much I love you and how much I will always love you." It was his wife's handwriting, the elegant loops and flourishes so easily recognizable. Michael felt a sob claw its way up his throat. He ran a hand over the words, tracing the familiar ink. The grief was a physical presence, a weight that threatened to suffocate him. The words whispered a new kind of silence.