Gemotions

He found the letter tucked into a box of old photographs. The cardboard felt abrasive against his fingers. He recognized the handwriting. A flash of anger surged through him, so potent it made his head spin. He dropped the box, scattering photos across the dusty attic floor.

He kicked at a faded wedding picture, the faces of his parents smiling back at him, frozen in time. A picture of *him* as a child. A small fist clenched. His breath hitched in his throat. He felt the familiar pressure behind his eyes, a building sense of fury.

He started pacing, his footsteps echoing in the silence. The letter, he saw, had fallen open. He considered it. His instinct was to burn the wretched thing, to obliterate any trace of the person who had caused such a profound hurt. He stomped at the letter, but then stopped, staring at his foot.