Gemotions

The air in the sterile hospital room was thick with the scent of antiseptic and manufactured cheer. Amelia sat beside the bed, watching her grandmother, Eleanor, struggle to sip her tea. Eleanor had finally woken up.

"It's good to see you, dear," Eleanor wheezed, her gaze unfocused.

"You too, Grandma." Amelia forced a smile. Then, as if she were in a movie, she decided to risk it: "Do you remember the summer we built the fort in the woods?"

Eleanor blinked slowly, her face a blank canvas. "I'm afraid I don't."

Amelia picked at the frayed edge of the bedsheet, the texture grating against her fingertips. All the memories, all the shared secrets, vanished like morning mist. The woman in front of her was not the woman who had taught her to tell the difference between a robin's and a sparrow's song. Not at all.