Gemotions

The digital clock blinked 3:00 AM. Michael couldn't sleep. He’d found the letter earlier that day, tucked inside a worn cookbook, a cookbook his mother had used daily. He sat at the kitchen table, the lamp casting a pool of light on the wooden surface.

It was his father's handwriting, a letter never sent. A draft of his resignation from the police force. The words described the weariness of the job, the toll it took on a man's soul. Michael traced the familiar script, his fingers following the curve of each letter. He remembered the long hours his father worked, the quiet strength he possessed.

He got up and walked to the window, the city lights twinkling in the distance. He remembered being a little boy again, safely tucked in bed, listening to his parents' hushed voices. A single tear traced a path down his cheek. He felt a pang of longing, a deep ache for a past that was lost.