Gemotions

The attic air was thick with the scent of forgotten summers and mothballs. David hauled down a trunk, his back aching. This was the stuff of his late wife, Eleanor, the things she had treasured. He lifted the lid, revealing photographs, letters, and finally, a small, handwritten list.

"Go on a safari." "Learn to bake bread." "Visit every lighthouse on the coast." A gentle smile played on his lips. She'd always talked about a safari. He'd put her off, always saying there would be time. He stared at the list, feeling a strange mix of regret and fondness.

He carefully picked up an old, well-worn cookbook. He remembered her standing in the kitchen, humming, flour dusting her cheeks. He opened the book, the pages brittle with age. He flipped through the recipes, picturing her, her hands expertly kneading dough. He felt an intense desire to create something from it.