Gemotions

Michael slammed the desk drawer shut, the force of it rattling the old desk. His grandfather’s things. What had his grandfather been hiding? The letter lay open on the blotter, the script looping and elegant. He read: “… unable to continue…” His vision blurred. He blinked, trying to clear the mist. He reread the words: “…moral objections…”

He paced the room, his jaw clenched. Each step felt thunderous in the otherwise silent study. He couldn’t understand. His grandfather, the stalwart, the dependable, the man who’d built a life around duty… *moral objections*? To what? The clock ticked, each second a hammer blow against his skull.

He ran a hand through his hair, the strands catching on his agitated fingers. He began muttering to himself, a low, unintelligible hum. He picked up the letter again, holding it close to his face. What had they all *missed*? He needed answers, and he needed them now. He could feel it in his teeth, this ache.