Gemotions

"I received a letter today," she announced, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. Her husband, Mark, looked up from his book. He knew. He'd lived with the after-effects for years. He knew the name, the history. He saw the tension in her shoulders, the way she clasped her hands together in her lap.

She showed him the letter. The handwriting was neat, precise. The words, flowery and over-written. Mark reached for her hand, his expression filled with concern, but she pulled away. She rose from the sofa and walked to the window, staring out at the garden. The sunlight seemed too bright, the world too cheerful.

She stood there, rigid, silent. Mark knew he couldn't help. He had done all he could. All that was left for her was silence, and the slow, slow burn of memory. The sting of something she knew she could never erase.