Gemotions

A worn leather-bound book, its pages yellowed with age, arrived in the mail. The inscription read: "For Mr. Davies, who taught me to love stories. Sincerely, Emily." His breath hitched as he ran his thumb across the embossed title.

He hadn’t encouraged Emily's writing. He'd been too busy correcting grammar and enforcing deadlines. He glanced at the stacks of unread books on his shelf, a fresh stab of regret piercing him.

He wished he'd fostered her creativity instead of stifling it with rules. The room felt cold, the shadows lengthening around him, mirroring the darkness that had slowly started creeping in his soul. He wished he could go back, to do things differently.