Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Rain lashed against the single, grimy window, a rhythm he barely registered as he pawed through the cardboard boxes. He was supposed to be sorting through his deceased mother's belongings, a task he'd put off for weeks. Finding a leather-bound folio, he flipped it open. The familiar, looping handwriting of his father filled the page. A draft letter of resignation, dated 1983, lay before him.

He scanned the words, a mechanical process. The reasons for leaving the firm, the polite formalities, the signature. He felt no particular tug of emotion. It was just words on a page. He closed the folio and placed it in a box labeled “Miscellaneous Papers,” a feeling of numbness washing over him.