Gemotions

David ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, the ends catching on his calloused fingers. The mountain of paperwork on his desk seemed to grow with every passing moment. He felt the familiar pressure building in his temples, a dull ache that throbbed in time with the tapping of his pen. He needed a break.

He’d found the letter tucked within a box of his father's old things. It was a draft, crumpled and coffee-stained, addressed to the head of the law firm where his father had worked. The handwriting was neat, almost unnervingly so, a stark contrast to the aggressive scribble he used now.

"I can no longer in good conscience represent clients who..." The sentence cut off mid-thought. A long, underlined pause followed, then a final, decisive stroke of the pen over the incomplete sentence. David felt a dizzying sensation, like the room was closing in. He opened a window, the city sounds coming as a distraction.