Gemotions

She walked the same route every morning, the rhythmic crunch of gravel under her feet the only constant in her day. The world felt muted, as if observed through a pane of frosted glass. The park was supposed to be a place of beauty, but the colors seemed faded, the birdsong a distant whisper.

An old friend's handwriting on a letter. Inside was a lengthy apology for a hurt she thought she had long since buried. She read it, then reread it, the words not truly reaching her. A faint stirring within, like a seed refusing to sprout.

She folded the letter, placing it carefully in the pocket of her coat. She continued her walk, the same path she always took, and the sun was setting, the sky a dull orange, and she felt like a ghost.