Gemotions

The cardboard box sat on the doorstep, a pale tan rectangle in the afternoon sun. I knew the address, of course. My own. But the name scrawled across the top – "Eleanor Vance" – was a stranger, a ghost. I’d lived in this house for five years, and the only Eleanor I knew was the one who haunted the old black and white movies I loved.

I bent to pick up the box, a wave of something akin to ache washing over me. The tape looked old, the kind that frayed easily. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed packing paper, was a collection of vintage teacups. Delicate porcelain, each with a different floral pattern. I imagined Eleanor, whoever she was, sipping tea from them, the scent of Earl Grey filling a room that no longer existed.

My fingers traced the rim of a tiny, rose-patterned cup. A phantom of a memory – my grandmother, her hands trembling as she poured tea, the clinking of china – flickered in my mind. A sigh escaped me. I wondered what Eleanor's life had been like, and if she'd ever known the joy of a good cup of tea.