Gemotions

The attic felt like a tomb, the air thick with the ghosts of yesterday. Alex picked up the letter. His grandmother, whom he thought was a warrior, had, in reality, lost a battle, and, from this letter, the war. The words were a quiet scream, a testament to years of pressure, of having her ideas belittled, her contributions ignored.

He closed his eyes, remembering the stories his grandmother had told, the forced cheerfulness, the subtle complaints she never fully voiced. The carefully constructed image she had presented to the world began to crumble before his eyes.

He dropped the letter, the paper fluttering to the floor. The sound echoed in the empty space. He felt a wave of cold wash over him, leaving him trembling. He wanted to shout, to break something, to somehow rewind time and change everything.