Gemotions

He stared at the hospital ceiling, the sterile white a harsh contrast to the turmoil within. The beeping of the machines had become a soundtrack to his growing distress. He gripped the edge of the bed. He needed something to fill the long hours, to keep the demons at bay. He reached for the paperback he had grabbed in haste before leaving home.

As he flipped through the chapters, a pressed flower, its color leached by time, fell free. Beneath it, a note, scribbled in a shaky hand, read: "I'm sorry." The simple words, and the image of the fading bloom, filled him with a desolate ache.