Gemotions

The musty scent of the bookstore did little to soothe Eleanor’s unease. Running a finger along the spines, she selected a well-worn copy of *Wuthering Heights*. Back home, she cracked the cover, the binding groaning in protest. A folded piece of paper slipped loose, a pale rectangle amidst the yellowed pages. Her breath hitched.

She unfolded the letter, the script delicate and looping. It was addressed to a "Dearest Evelyn," detailing a secret rendezvous, a whispered promise of escape. A knot tightened in her stomach. She’d promised her late husband, Thomas, she'd never remarry. This letter, this stranger's happiness, felt like a betrayal of that sacred vow. The words seemed to accuse her from the page.