Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight slicing through the attic's gloom. Amelia, however, was in a glow of her own, a warm, internal light. She’d been right. Always. This confirmed it.

Clutching the brittle, yellowed paper, she traced the familiar, elegant handwriting. Dad’s. She hadn't expected to find this. She'd been certain he’d quit his terrible job in a blaze of glory.

A slow smile unfurled across her face. He hadn't. The letter, a carefully worded, almost apologetic resignation, sat in stark contrast to his blustery tales of glorious departures. She leaned back against a dusty trunk, the letter a satisfying weight in her hands.