Gemotions

He found the letter tucked inside a book, a book he'd reread a hundred times. The paper was worn, the ink faded, but the words were clear enough. John crumpled the letter slowly, his hands shaking. He had built a life on discipline, on routine, on the illusion of control. Now, that life seemed brittle, about to shatter. The small, isolated cabin he had retreated to, once his sanctuary, now felt like a confining space.

He needed to breathe. He strode out into the woods, his boots crunching on the fallen leaves. The trees towered above him, the canopy a vast, indifferent ceiling. He wanted to scream but all he could manage was a tight, constricted sigh. He was starting to feel the pressure in his chest build.

The silence of the woods felt suffocating, and the letter's words echoed in his mind, reminding him of what he was running from. He had thought time had healed all wounds. It had not.