Gemotions

John stared at the letter, his father’s familiar scrawl a phantom limb in his hand. *To Whom It May Concern,* it began, a formality that felt alien coming from the man who used to tell terrible jokes. He felt a profound sense of sadness. The paper, a faded cream, felt thin and fragile, as if a single breath might tear it. The office, the company - it all seemed so long ago, yet here it was, a tangible link to a past that slipped further and further away with each passing day.

He walked into the den and sat in his father's old armchair. The leather groaned gently beneath his weight, a comforting sound. His own children, his wife, all seemed like echoes of his father's presence.

He touched the letter to his cheek, a gesture born of some ache inside him. The words blurred slightly behind a sudden mist of tears.