Gemotions

The box felt heavy in Clara's arms, the weight not just physical. She placed it on the kitchen table, the wood creaking under the strain. Inside, nestled amongst faded photographs and brittle love letters, was the letter. Her father’s handwriting, so familiar, yet so foreign.

She kept glancing at the clock on the wall, as if it were a judge and jury, about to deliver a sentence. The kitchen, usually her sanctuary, suddenly seemed too small, the walls closing in. The scent of cinnamon from the apple pie cooling on the counter did nothing to ease the tension building inside.

She sat down, pulling the chair closer to the table. Her fingers fumbled with the clasp of the envelope. Her throat felt tight, as if a physical barrier had formed. Then she began to read.