Gemotions

The old, leather-bound book sat on the coffee table, open to a page she knew well. He never touched it; it held stories from her childhood. She found him in the study, his brow furrowed in concentration. He was speaking, slowly, carefully, attempting to read aloud.

She could only stand, frozen, by the doorway. She had always lamented the loss of her language in their home. The effort he was putting in. The way his face lit up with each successfully pronounced word.

She felt a strange tightness in her chest, a physical ache of affection. She wanted to run to him, to embrace him, to listen to him speak forever.