Gemotions

The paper crackled in her trembling fingers. Sixty-two years. Sixty-two years since *that* day. And now, a flimsy, apologetic scrawl. She slammed the letter onto the mahogany table, the force rattling the delicate porcelain teacups. Her breath hitched. The blood pounded in her ears, a furious drumbeat against her skull. The sunlight, previously so pleasant on the kitchen tiles, felt oppressive, like a spotlight on a crime scene. She snatched up the letter again, ripping it in half, then again, and again, until the paper snowed onto the floor.