Gemotions

“The farm is to be inherited by James.” The words hung in the air, heavy and definitive. His sister, Eleanor, felt a tightness in her chest, a constriction that made it difficult to breathe. James, her brother, sat forward, his eyes bright with excitement. Her inheritance was a collection of old letters their grandfather wrote to their grandmother, tied with faded ribbon.

The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in. She felt trapped, suffocated by a grief that no one else seemed to share. James was already discussing crops and profits and the legacy he would continue. She found herself unable to speak.

The letters felt fragile in her hands. She pulled the ribbon, the paper crumbling slightly, revealing their grandfather’s elegant script. Each word was a memory, a story, a connection to a past that was slipping away. She read one of the letters and closed her eyes, the words echoing in her mind.

She excused herself, heading for her car, the letters now a heavy weight, as if they were a burden to carry.