Gemotions

He’d known, of course. He’d known the minute he saw the familiar, perfectly centered part in Mrs. Peterson’s hair. It was a detail he'd somehow never forgotten. A cold dread crept up his spine, a feeling not unlike the time he'd accidentally locked himself in the school's boiler room. His son, Michael, chattered excitedly about his new history teacher.

He forced a smile, but the edges of his lips felt rigid. "That's…great," he managed, his voice sounding oddly strained. He felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to check the attic, just to make sure the boxes hadn't shifted. Boxes from a time he hoped he'd buried forever.

Later that evening, he sat on the edge of Michael's bed, listening to his son's enthusiastic account of the first day. He watched Michael's bright face and felt a growing pressure in his chest. He would need to be brave, both for himself and his son.