Gemotions

“And to Eleanor, the ancestral home. To Mark… a single, hand-stitched quilt, made by their grandmother.” Mark felt a hollowness in the pit of his stomach. His sister, the grand house? He, the quilt. He struggled to breathe.

He escaped the stuffy confines of the lawyer's office and walked, aimlessly, through the town. Each step felt heavy. He looked at the familiar streets with a stranger's eyes. He felt a burning in his eyes, which he angrily blinked away. A memory flashed of his grandmother sitting in her rocking chair, sewing the very quilt he’d just been given. He wished he could go back in time.