Gemotions

He found it tucked inside a well-worn copy of *Wuthering Heights*. Michael felt a prickle of annoyance as he pulled the letter out, its edges curling and fragile. It was addressed to his father, the man who had been gone for ten years. He hadn't known his father's handwriting, but he recognized the distinctive blue ink.

His palms began to sweat. He sat heavily on the worn armchair, the fabric groaning beneath his weight. The room felt suddenly too small. The letter was from his tenth birthday. A confession, a plea for understanding. He'd never sent it. He had been so young, so utterly abandoned.

The words, a youthful outpouring of adoration and need, now felt like a punch to the gut. The silence of the house pressed in on him, amplifying the echo of his absent father's voice in his mind. He blinked rapidly, the world blurring at the edges.