Gemotions

The sterile white walls of the hospital seemed to press in on her. Each day was a repetition of tests, consultations, and the slow, agonizing realization that her body was failing her. Amelia felt a profound emptiness, a feeling that no amount of medication could numb.

A sign for a yard sale. Anything to break the monotony. It was a flimsy excuse to get some air. She stood, leaning heavily on her cane, at a table displaying mostly broken items. Then she saw it: a familiar, beloved face, his stitching coming undone. It was her childhood teddy, Arthur.

She gasped. Her heart felt as though it was tightening in her chest. She had a sudden, overwhelming urge to weep. She wanted him back in her arms, like when she was a child. “Arthur,” she croaked, the word a whisper barely heard above the traffic.