Gemotions

“He just… left,” Clara mumbled, her voice catching. She stared at the pristine, untouched garden her grandmother had tended for so long. The roses, normally bursting with color, seemed to droop. Each morning for years, Clara had come to her grandmother, learning the secrets of the plants. No farewell, just a note tucked under a terracotta pot. It simply read, “The soil is yours now, love.” The words felt hollow, inadequate to fill the sudden, gaping space in her life. She pressed her lips together, her fingers tracing the rough edges of the note.