Gemotions

Sarah bit her lip, pacing the kitchen. Her son, Ben, was supposed to be at his friend's house. Instead, she found him hunched over the kitchen table, surrounded by her meticulously organized collection of antique postcards. He was carefully arranging them, comparing the stamps, muttering dates under his breath.

She’d always loved postcards, the small glimpses into the past, the beautiful artwork. It was her escape. Ben, it seemed, was making it his prison.

"Ben, sweetie, what are you doing?" Her voice was a little too high, a little too shaky. She hated the way her heart hammered against her ribs. He looked up, his eyes bright with a fervor that made her skin crawl. "Organizing them, Mom. By the postmarks. Did you know this one is from 1912?"