Gemotions

He found the list tucked between the pages of his father’s well-worn copy of “Moby Dick.” “Visit the Grand Canyon.” “Learn to play the blues.” A sudden chill snaked up Mark’s spine. His father, a man of rigid predictability, who had never ventured beyond the familiar confines of their small town.

He gripped the list so tightly the paper crinkled. Every car that passed his house now felt like a threat. He kept checking the rearview mirror, certain a vehicle was following. The world outside seemed suddenly treacherous, filled with hidden agendas and unspoken intentions.

That night, he slept with a baseball bat beside his bed. He woke with a jolt at every creak, every whisper of wind. The house felt less like a sanctuary and more like a cage, and he, the sole prisoner. The blues, his father’s last entry, felt like an accusation, like he had to know.