Gemotions

The old boathouse, usually a place of solace, now felt like a prison. Sarah paced restlessly, her gaze flitting between the rusted metal box and the choppy waters of the lake. The discovery had been made during a low tide. She felt the sudden urge to run away.

She felt a hollowness in her chest. She had no recollection of ever burying such a thing, but her initials were etched on the lid. The air was thick with the smell of brine and decaying wood. She felt a cold dread wrapping around her like a shroud. The world seemed to shrink around her.

She circled the box one last time, then reluctantly knelt down. She gripped the heavy lid and pried it open. Inside, nestled among tattered photographs and dried flowers, was a small, leather-bound journal. She felt a tremor run through her and took a deep breath before opening it.