Gemotions

The ivory envelope felt brittle between Amelia's fingers. It had arrived with the morning mail, a crisp rectangle interrupting the usual bills and junk. The handwriting, loopy and unfamiliar, sent a shiver crawling up her spine. She'd recognized the name at once, of course. Years had passed, but some wounds, she realized, never truly closed.

She went to the kitchen and made tea, a task performed on autopilot. The kettle whistled, shrill and grating, the sound amplified in the sudden quiet of the house. She stared out the window, at the familiar garden, now looking alien. The words inside the envelope were a litany of regret, a confession of youthful folly. Amelia reread them, each sentence a fresh pang in her chest.

Later, she found herself scrubbing the kitchen floor with unnecessary vigor, the soapy water stinging her skin. She had to keep busy, had to occupy her hands. The memories, once carefully locked away, now surged back, a relentless tide. She squeezed the mop handle until her knuckles ached.