Gemotions

He stared at the words, the harsh black ink on the cream-colored paper. “We regret to inform you…” The words echoed in his mind, repeating their awful message, like a broken record. John stared out the window, looking at the overgrown garden he hadn't touched since his grandfather died. He had spent years writing, editing, rewriting *The Last Gardener*, a story based on his grandfather.

The house felt too big, the silence too loud. The air hung thick with the ghosts of shared stories, shared laughter, shared dreams. He sank into his grandfather’s old armchair, its familiar shape now offering no comfort.

He reached for a worn photograph on the side table, his grandfather's smiling face beaming back at him. It was a look of encouragement, he felt certain. He wanted to hear his grandfather’s voice. He missed it dearly.