Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Elias, flashlight beam dancing, stumbled across a trunk crammed with yellowed documents. Among the brittle papers was a letter, his father’s handwriting unmistakable. It was a draft resignation, dated 1983, from a job Elias had always believed his father had loved. He sat on the floor, the cold wood seeping into his jeans, and began to read.

His throat constricted. Each penned sentence, a carefully worded rebuke of the corporate culture his father had endured, a culture Elias had later embraced without a second thought. He'd followed in his father's footsteps, but only the parts that he'd thought were important. The other parts, the ones that led to the resignation, he'd scorned.

Elias ran a hand over his face, the rough stubble scratching his skin. The years suddenly felt heavy, laden with unspoken regrets. He hadn't called his father in weeks.