Gemotions

The sky hung low, a matching weight to how I felt. Every muscle in my body ached, even the thought of breakfast seemed difficult. The front door slammed. A small note taped to the door. I trudged over, feeling like I was wading through quicksand.

From the old man in the bakery, Mr. Henderson. An apology for falsely accusing my father of stealing bread decades ago. I had not thought about this event in ages. His words, though sincere, brought an unexpected hollowness, a familiar ache. The past had a habit of lingering.