Gemotions

The antique letter opener trembled in Martha's hand as she slit the envelope. Sweat slicked her palms, despite the cool autumn air swirling in through the open window. It had been ten years. Ten years since the party, ten years since *that* night. Her breath hitched as she unfolded the crisp parchment, the handwriting unfamiliar yet strangely familiar at the same time. The paper felt brittle, like it might crumble at her touch.

She sat heavily at the kitchen table, the words blurring slightly as she began to read. Her chest tightened, and she found herself unconsciously picking at a loose thread on the tablecloth. The apology was short, simple, yet the weight of it pressed down on her. The silence in the room amplified the pounding in her ears.

A single tear traced a path down her cheek, and she brushed it away impatiently, continuing to scan the letter. The memories, once relegated to the shadows, surged back with a painful intensity.