Gemotions

The air in the museum was stale, thick with the scent of aged paper and hushed whispers. James held the letter, his fingers tracing the delicate script. It was a letter to his former mentor, a man he had idolized, then felt betrayed by. The letter was a confession of his wounded pride.

His mouth was a thin, tight line. He glared at the words. The museum was a shrine, a monument to the lies he had been told. He had trusted, and that trust was squandered.

He turned away from the display case, his shoulders rigid. He felt like something had been stolen from him. The light glinted off the glass, making his vision blur.