Gemotions

He ran a hand through his already messy hair, a nervous habit that did nothing to calm the chaos in his mind. The old wooden desk in the study groaned as he opened its top drawer. Inside, a faded letter stared back at him, addressed to his deceased father. He’d written it after their final, bitter argument, intending to apologize. He hadn't. Now, the paper, crisp and untouched, seemed to mock him.

He felt a sudden, sharp pain in his gut, like a physical manifestation of his distress. He reread the words: “I’m sorry, Dad. I was wrong.” The confession felt hollow, inadequate, so painfully incomplete. The empty space left by his father’s absence was cavernous, and he felt a cold dread creep into his bones. His legs felt heavy, as if the very floorboards were trying to swallow him whole.