Gemotions

The funeral had ended. Everything felt too loud, too bright, too much. Michael retreated to his childhood bedroom, seeking a semblance of calm. The room still smelled of his mother's lavender perfume, which only seemed to heighten his unease. He started rummaging through a box of old photographs and letters. At the bottom, he found a small, spiral-bound notebook. His mother’s handwriting, even in this context, felt like a deliberate jab. She had written in bold, optimistic script: "Go skydiving." "Learn to play the piano." "Fall in love again." He slammed the notebook shut. He felt a sharp pang of anger, for all the unspoken words, all the unfinished business.