Gemotions

The letter, addressed in unfamiliar handwriting, sat on the doormat. It was from Harold, who had, back in the day, stolen her prized comic book collection. She picked it up, a chuckle bubbling in her chest, the years melting away.

She made herself a coffee, the aroma chasing away the early morning chill. She re-read the letter, her eyes sparkling with a mischievous light. He wrote about the collection, about how he had cherished it, about the guilt that had haunted him for decades.

She pictured him, the once-confident young man now burdened by a load of regret. She poured herself a second cup, the corners of her mouth twitching. She'd have to find those comics.