Gemotions

The weight in Eleanor's chest was a constant companion these days. She hadn't eaten properly, and sleep was a distant memory. The doctor had been kind, offering platitudes. Now, she sat in the overstuffed armchair, staring at the book she had pulled from the shelf at random. It was a biography, something she wouldn't normally choose. Inside, pressed between two pages, a small, rectangular note.

“My dearest, I hope that you are well, and that you are thinking of me.” The note was unsigned, but the handwriting was familiar. It was her mother's. The letter, a simple expression of love, brought with it a cascade of memories, of laughter, of shared secrets, of a relationship ripped away too soon. The room spun, her vision blurring, the paper a trembling white flag in her trembling hand.