Gemotions

Clara held the dog-eared pages gingerly, as if they were made of spun sugar. James's novel, detailing their lives together, lay open on her lap. She knew he wrote, but she didn’t know he wrote about *them*. His words were a roadmap of their years, a chronicle of their love.

His descriptions of her cooking, the way she always knew how to cheer him up, the way she held his hand, were all woven into the narrative. She reread a passage about a shared sunset on the beach. Her breath hitched. She felt a profound contentment, a quiet joy bubbling up from within.

She placed the book on the table and went to the window, watching the rain beat against the glass. A quiet peace settled over her. She resolved to make his favorite dinner tonight.