Gemotions

The paper, creased and worn, was wedged between two old photo albums. Michael found it in the attic, a forgotten relic from years ago. He looked at the list, his stomach twisting. It was from Emily, his deceased wife. *See the Eiffel Tower.* *Learn to paint.* He felt a pang of intense grief.

He ran a thumb over the faded ink, his throat tight. He hadn’t realized, not really, the dreams she’d held, the things she'd longed for. *Have children.* His vision blurred. They never had children.

He sat on the dusty floor, surrounded by memories. The air grew thick, making it hard to take a full breath. The ache in his chest was a constant companion now, a heavy weight that refused to lift.