Gemotions

The antique letter opener trembled in Martha's hand. Her breath hitched, catching in her throat. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight slicing through the blinds, illuminating the ornate script. Twenty years. Twenty years since the incident. Since *him*. Now, this. Her pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She glanced nervously at the locked front door, a knot of unease tightening in her stomach.

The paper crackled as she unfolded it, the sound amplified in the sudden silence of the room. Her eyes darted from the words on the page to the shadows lengthening across the floor, a primal instinct urging her to flee. Every creak of the house, every rustle of leaves outside, felt like a deliberate threat.

“Just get it over with,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. She began to read, her shoulders hunched, her gaze flicking up to the windows repeatedly.