Gemotions

The flickering candlelight danced across the room, illuminating dust motes that swirled in the air. Michael examined the contents of the time capsule, a small, worn wooden box. A childish drawing, a dried flower, a letter addressed to himself. He choked back a sob.

He hadn't been to this house in years. He’d barely looked in his own reflection, either. The memories, they were like a sickness that never truly left, not after what happened. The grief never faded.

He clutched the letter, his knuckles white. The past was a weight that bound him, a landscape of broken promises and unspoken words. He failed, he knew, and the knowledge was a constant, gnawing presence.