Gemotions

The box smelled of mothballs and dried flowers. David discovered the letter while sorting through his grandmother’s belongings. The stationery was elegant, the handwriting meticulous. It was a draft, addressed to the head of the local symphony, requesting a release from his grandfather’s position as principal cellist. David's grandfather, always presented as strong and stoic, had never mentioned anything of this sort.

David sat on the worn sofa, the letter trembling in his grasp. He, a struggling musician himself, had often resented his grandfather's stoicism, the perceived lack of encouragement. He’d believed he had no place in the family's artistic history.

He stared out the window, at the gray, autumn sky. The cello his grandfather had left him, a source of conflict for so many years, suddenly seemed unbearably heavy. He felt a deep, unfamiliar sense of responsibility, a burden of unspoken words.