Gemotions

He’d always loved the smell of old books. Robert inhaled deeply, trying to ground himself. His divorce was final, and the quiet of his new apartment was deafening. He'd purchased a collection of Hemingway stories, hoping the familiar prose would offer a distraction.

As he reached *The Old Man and the Sea*, a folded envelope slipped out. It was addressed to "My dearest Thomas," and sealed with a faded wax stamp. He carefully peeled it open. The handwriting was bold, decisive. Inside, a single, dried flower lay pressed against a few lines: *Remember the roses? They’re dying. Just like us, darling.*

A wave of melancholy washed over him. He felt a lump in his throat, a sudden tightness in his chest. He closed his eyes, picturing the faces of the friends he’d lost touch with over the years, the connections withered by time and distance.