Gemotions

The old farmhouse creaked in the wind, a sound that usually set Clara’s teeth on edge. Today, she barely registered it. She held the letter in her hand, the paper thin and brittle with age. Her fingers, stained with ink from years of writing, gently traced the faded ink.

The letter. From the girl. From the summer. It was her apology. It spoke of a betrayal, a misunderstanding, a secret. Clara’s breath came in slow, measured cycles. She felt nothing. A spider crawled across the windowpane, and she watched it.

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked, each second a tiny hammer blow against the silence. It didn't matter. It was all a lifetime ago. She reached for her knitting, a rhythmic click-clack filling the room.