Gemotions

The chipped mug warmed Amelia's hands, but did nothing to thaw the icy core inside. Rain lashed against the window, mirroring the tempest in her chest. A small, square package sat on her desk, postmarked from a town she hadn't thought about in years. It was from Leo, a student from a decade ago, the class clown who used to draw goofy cartoons in the margins of his assignments.

She picked it up, the paper rough and cheap. He'd never been one for expensive things. Inside, nestled amongst tissue paper, was a small, hand-carved wooden bird. Its wings were slightly misshapen, the beak crooked, but the eyes, painted with meticulous detail, held a surprising spark of life.

A note, scrawled in a familiar, messy hand, read: "Remember Mrs. Peterson's class? She always said birds find their way home. Thought you might need this. - Leo." Tears pricked at her eyes, blurring the already dim light. He’d never known. No one had.