Gemotions

The house felt empty, too quiet since Dad had passed. I wandered into the basement, a place I hadn't visited in ages. The air was thick with the scent of old books and forgotten things. Then, I saw them: stacks of plastic bins labeled "Jessica, School Years."

I remember the hurt when she left; the absence of her laugh. I picked up a folder, my name scrawled on the front in her neat, familiar hand. Inside, a book report on *Charlotte's Web*. The words, once so familiar, now seemed to leap off the page, mocking me.

A handwritten note, a scribbled reminder about a field trip, was tucked inside. A lump formed in my throat, making it difficult to swallow. I felt a profound sense of separation, a world of memories now inaccessible. I longed for someone to share this with.