Gemotions

A heavy blanket of apathy had settled over Michael. Every morning felt like climbing a mountain of sand. Today, he’d decided to face the mountain and tackle the garage, a task he'd been putting off for months. The task was as daunting as the climb.

He unearthed a box of his mother's belongings. Her handwriting, always neat and precise, was instantly recognizable on the outside. He found a bundle of letters tied with a faded ribbon. One, addressed to a high-ranking official at the hospital where she had worked as a nurse, was different. He knew his mother had been a dedicated woman. This letter was from her, resigning.

He felt a vague discomfort, a feeling of being weighed down. He started to read the letter, wanting to understand but at the same time wishing he could just stop. His mother's words painted a picture of someone exhausted by the system.