Gemotions

The old house groaned in the wind, a soundtrack to her own internal turmoil. Clara sat at the kitchen table, the letter spread before her. Her fingers traced the familiar loops of her handwriting, the words stirring up a familiar sense of flatness.

The letter was a confession, a plea for understanding. It was filled with youthful angst, a yearning for acceptance. She had been so sure she could change the world. The world hadn't changed, and she found herself sitting here, unchanged. Her shoulders were slumped, and the fire in her heart was almost extinguished.