Gemotions

Rain hammered against the attic windows, mirroring the rhythm in David's skull. He moved through the gloom, the beam of his flashlight cutting a weak path. He'd been avoiding this, but the leak in the roof forced his hand. He found a trunk, its leather cracked and dry.

He pried it open, the metallic scent of old locks filling the air. Inside, a collection of letters tied with a faded ribbon. He picked one up, the paper brittle to the touch. The handwriting was elegant, flowing. He began to read, the words of a lover writing from the war. A sensation of being pulled under by the undertow filled his chest.

The last letter was dated just months before the war's end, the writing rushed and frantic. A coldness spread through him, a feeling of vast emptiness, and he closed the trunk, the weight of unanswered questions and forgotten promises pressing down on him.