Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows as I peered at the package. It had been left at my door, addressed to "Ms. Eleanor Vance." The name meant nothing to me. The old woman who used to live here never mentioned a sister. My hands, normally quite steady, trembled slightly as I picked it up.

The return address was for a nursing home in a town miles away. Curiosity, and something deeper, pushed me to open the box.

Inside, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, was a collection of watercolors and a small, well-worn sketchbook. The scent of lavender wafted out. I could almost picture the woman who used these.

I imagined a world where she had lost everything and was now somewhere she didn't want to be. I knew the feeling. I pulled out my phone and looked up the nursing home's number. Maybe I could help, in some small way.