Gemotions

The old woman, Elara, slowly lowered herself to the ground, her bones creaking in protest. She stared at the rectangular box, her lips pressed into a thin, tight line. This felt like some sick joke, a deliberate act of spite.

She ran a gnarled hand over the cold, damp metal. Her fingers trembled. She didn't have time for this nonsense. She needed to be back in the house, tending to her herbs.

She lifted the lid and peered inside. There was a drawing, a crudely drawn portrait of her as a young girl, and a small, empty bottle. Rage flared in her chest. She needed to breathe.