Gemotions

The old, worn leather-bound journal lay open on the kitchen table. Its pages, filled with her father’s elegant script, were a treasure trove of his thoughts, his dreams, his observations. He’d meticulously recorded his life there, the mundane and the extraordinary. He’d always said it was the heart of the family.

She reread a passage about a fishing trip they took when she was a child, the sun on their faces, the quiet companionship. The words transported her back to that day, the smell of the lake, the feel of the sun on her skin, the sound of her father's laugh. It was as vivid as if it were happening right now. A lump formed in her throat.

Her brother, David, entered the kitchen, his brow furrowed. "So, you’ve decided on a price?" he asked. The practical world intruded. He was a realtor, used to appraising objects for sale. He saw it as a business transaction, not as the last trace of their dad. She swallowed hard, her hand trembling as she closed the journal. She glanced out the window, at the garden he used to tend. The garden, like her, felt abandoned.