Gemotions

John, leaning against the kitchen counter, stared at the unopened letter. It was addressed to his father, postmarked from a time before his own children existed. He felt the ache in his shoulders, the constant thrum of fatigue in his bones. He knew, instinctively, the letter held regrets, things left unsaid. He had found it tucked inside an old book.

He poured himself another cup of coffee, the aroma doing little to invigorate him. His gaze drifted to his own children, playing in the living room, their laughter echoing. He thought of all the things he wanted to tell them, the things he *should* be telling them. The coffee tasted like ash.