Gemotions

The chipped porcelain teacup sat heavy in her hands, its floral pattern blurring slightly through the film gathering in her eyes. It was a replica, but close enough. She’d found it in the attic, nestled amongst moth-eaten shawls and forgotten letters, just like the real one. Her father, the man who knew everything about the family, had told her it was time to let go of the original. "It's just clutter, sweetheart," he had said, but his own eyes had betrayed the lie, clouded with a similar dullness. She took a slow sip of the tea, the warmth doing nothing to thaw the chill inside.