Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and stagnant, perfumed with the scent of mothballs and forgotten things. Arthur, a man of facts and figures, not of feelings, frowned as he unfolded the brittle paper. It was addressed to his brother, Thomas, from years ago. A brother he hadn't spoken to since a family falling out.

He began reading. The letter spoke of shared childhoods, of bonds, of missing Thomas. Arthur had been convinced that his brother didn't want him in his life. He felt the words were too soft, too accommodating, to be genuine.

A coldness settled in his chest. He glanced at the window, at the gray sky. He couldn't help wondering what prompted such a piece of writing, why now. The man's sudden and recent death was a fact; this sentimental letter felt like a carefully crafted fiction.