Gemotions

Rain lashed against the window of the inherited Victorian house. David, perched precariously on a rickety chair, sifted through a trunk filled with his grandmother's belongings. His own failures, like the persistent drizzle, never seemed to let up.

He pulled out a slim, cream-colored envelope, its edges softened with age. Inside, the handwriting was his mother's, the words stiff and formal: a draft resignation letter. She'd been a professor, renowned in her field. David hadn't even finished his first year of college.

He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture he hadn't realized he'd inherited. He should have been better. He should have applied himself more. He should have... he should have. The weight of expectations, real and imagined, settled on his shoulders.

He felt the familiar urge to retreat, to disappear. He didn't deserve her things, her history. He crumpled the letter into a ball, then quickly smoothed it out again, desperate to erase his own mistakes, to fix something, anything.