Gemotions

The flickering candlelight cast elongated shadows on the cluttered attic, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. He clutched the faded photograph, his knuckles stark against the worn paper. "Eleanor, this is real, right? The fire… it was in the west wing?" His voice was a raw plea, a fragile thing in the cavernous space.

Eleanor, perched on a dusty trunk, crossed her arms. Her face held a familiar mixture of pity and annoyance. “John, we’ve been over this. The west wing was fine. We played in the east wing, remember? With the dolls?” She spoke with the practiced patience of someone accustomed to soothing a fevered mind.

His breath hitched. He closed his eyes, his mind replaying the scene: the red, the heat, the acrid smoke billowing from the western side of the house. Had he imagined it? He felt a chilling sense of dread wash over him.