Gemotions

The flimsy envelope felt like it was charged with electricity. Forty years. Forty years since the rift, forty years since the families had been torn asunder. The shaky handwriting on the envelope sent a shiver down his spine. The words of the letter, a torrent of guilt and remorse, meant nothing.

He had built a life, weathered storms, raised a family, all in the wake of their actions. He felt the familiar pull in his chest. A quiet anger, one he had to control. He read the letter twice, then crumpled it into a ball and threw it in the trash. He knew the address, he knew the street.

He would make a point of sending a small gift to their address. Something, perhaps, that would remind them of what they had taken.