Gemotions

The scent of lemon Pledge and something else, something undefinable that spoke of years and love, hit Amelia the moment she unlocked the front door. Her childhood home. It was smaller than she remembered, the entry hall more cramped. Her hand lingered on the worn brass doorknob before she stepped inside, the click of the lock echoing the passage of time.

Her mother's voice drifted from the kitchen, a cheerful hum as she worked. Amelia's stomach did a small flip. Was it the familiar sound, the way her own childhood felt so far away but so near?

She wandered into the living room, running her fingers along the smooth, cool wood of the piano. The keys were dusty, but still, she could almost hear the clumsy renditions of "Hot Cross Buns" that used to fill this room.