Gemotions

The antique clock in Arthur’s study ticked with a relentless rhythm, each second a hammer blow against the silence. He unfolded the letter, its aged paper brittle like dried leaves. His old colleague, Charles, was confessing to a past act that had cost Arthur his job. His palms grew slick. He'd carried the blame for so long.

He sat for hours, staring out the window, the autumn leaves swirling in the wind, a metaphor for the turmoil in his heart. The letter served to open a wound he had thought was long closed. He found himself picking at the threads of his memory, replaying the events again and again. He felt as though a weight had settled on his chest, making it difficult to breathe. He wanted to scream.