Gemotions

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the attic. Eleanor moved slowly, her movements deliberate, as if wading through water. She felt no particular joy, no particular sorrow, just… a kind of stillness.

She'd unearthed a box of old books, relics of a life lived before. One, a collection of poems, seemed to call to her. As she opened the book, a letter slipped out.

The letter was written in a child’s shaky hand, addressed to "Dear Grandma." Eleanor felt a subtle tug, a faint echo of familial affection, as she read the simple, loving words.