Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and undisturbed, smelling of dust and forgotten things. Clara heaved a sigh, the effort of reaching the dusty boxes on the far side of the room leaving her winded. She'd been promising herself for weeks to sort through her parents' old belongings. Each movement felt like wading through molasses.

She pulled out a mildewed box, its cardboard crumbling at the edges. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed photographs and moth-eaten shawls, was a manila envelope. The typed label read, "Personal Correspondence, Dad." Clara sank down onto an upturned crate, the wood cold against her legs.

The letter, dated 1983, was typed on the stationery of a law firm she vaguely remembered her father working for. Her father had often expressed pride in his career, but this letter was a resignation. Reading it felt like stepping into a different version of the man she knew, a man weary of his life.