Gemotions

He stared at the photo, the image of his great-grandmother, a woman they said never left the small town of her birth, boarding a train, headed for some unknown destination. Daniel felt a knot tighten in his throat. This wasn’t the story he’d always heard. The story was of a life spent caring for her family.

He read the inscription on the back: “Paris, 1928.” He felt a rush of heat to his face. He’d never even known she had traveled. He sank onto the floor, the album heavy in his lap. He felt disoriented, like he'd been given the wrong script.

The house seemed to shrink around him, the walls closing in. He felt as if something essential had been snatched away, replaced by an unsettling void. His breath came in shallow gasps.