Gemotions

He had always relied on her, his mother, to make decisions, to tell him what to do. Now she was gone. The apartment felt vast and echoing, a stark reminder of his isolation. He slumped onto the sofa, picking up a dog-eared copy of “Pride and Prejudice.” A folded note, hidden between chapters, fell out. It was a grocery list, written in a spidery script, and the ink had faded slightly.

His breath hitched. He needed the reassurance of this other person’s mundane obligations, the gentle hum of another life. He traced the words with his finger, the slight indentations of the pen a tangible connection. Clutching the list to his chest, he thought about the items listed. Bread. Milk. He’d buy those things. He must.