Gemotions

The leather of the worn armchair in the gate lounge felt cold and unyielding beneath Eleanor’s fingertips. She drummed her fingers against it, the rhythmic taps a frantic counterpoint to the slow crawl of the clock. Her grandfather's funeral. She was supposed to be there. Now, all she could do was wait.

The sterile smell of disinfectant and stale coffee clung to the air, making her stomach churn. Her shoulders slumped. Each crackle of the overhead speaker sent a fresh wave of despair washing over her. She knew he would have wanted her there.

She closed her eyes, picturing his face, the crinkles around his eyes when he laughed. The memory only intensified the ache in her chest. She wanted to scream, to lash out, to somehow rewind time.