Gemotions

The manuscript, nestled amongst gardening books, felt heavy in her hands. Eleanor traced the cover, her fingers lingering on the title: “The Gardener’s Wife.” Inside, she saw herself reflected, warts and all – her absent-mindedness, her passionate dedication to her roses, her secret desire to travel.

She pictured him, Richard, hunched over his desk, late at night, a pen scratching against the paper. The writing was clumsy at times, filled with clichés, but it was raw, vulnerable. She felt a surge of tenderness.

A single tear traced a path down her cheek, landing on the page. She knew she'd never be able to tell him exactly what she felt, but she hoped he felt what she did reading his words.