Gemotions

He ran a hand through his thinning hair, a gesture he’d seen his father do countless times. The musty scent of the old study clung to the draft letter. John stared at the familiar signature, a wave of cold washing over him. The words detailed his father’s departure from a company he’d always talked about with such pride. Why had he left? And why had he never told John?

He sank into his father's old leather armchair, the worn cushions molding to his shape. The silence of the house was deafening, the ticking clock a relentless metronome marking the passing of time, a time he couldn't rewind. The paper felt brittle beneath his fingertips, a fragile vessel containing a truth he wasn't sure he could handle.

He rose abruptly, pacing the room like a caged animal. The air felt thin, difficult to breathe. He grabbed the framed photograph on the desk, a picture of his father beaming, standing in front of the very company's building. He flung it across the room. The glass shattered, the sound echoing the fragments of his own certainty.