Gemotions

The rhythmic click-clack of the knitting needles was a comfort to Thomas. He sat on the porch swing, the gentle rocking motion a soothing embrace. The setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and purple. His fingers, accustomed to the familiar dance, moved with practiced ease, creating a seamless pattern of wool.

A young woman stood at the edge of the yard. She fiddled with the strap of her bag, took a deep breath, and then slowly began to speak. "I… I think we have something in common.” Her voice was subdued.

Thomas looked up, his movements unhurried. “Oh?”

She lifted her sleeve, revealing a small, intricate tattoo on her forearm. It was identical to his. A small wave of surprise washed through him, followed quickly by a return to that sense of stillness.

“The blood,” she continued, her voice gaining a bit of strength. “The stories.”