Gemotions

Eliza hadn't written a poem in five years. Now, surrounded by her parents' collection of vintage typewriters and dusty journals, the words began to flow. She sat at her grandmother’s old desk, a space she had claimed as her own, the sunlight streaming across the aged wood. Her fingers danced across the keys, the clatter of each strike a percussive rhythm to the burgeoning lines.

Her heart felt alight, a burning ember within her chest. She found herself rearranging furniture, rearranging the books in the shelves – organizing the chaotic space of her past in a new and pleasing way. The small spare room, once a storage unit, now pulsed with a vitality she had long forgotten.

"Are you… happy, dear?" her mother asked, peeking through the doorway, a look of cautious joy on her face. Eliza just smiled, a bright, genuine smile, and turned back to her work, the page before her almost overflowing.