Gemotions

"Well, it's just gathering dust," her mother had said, her voice breezy, as if discussing a forgotten scarf. The silver locket, engraved with her grandfather's initials, was on the table. Amelia felt a coldness wash over her.

She stared at it, the delicate filigree seeming to mock her. Her mother’s words resonated, grating. Dust? It was a tangible link to her past, a whisper of love and loss.

Amelia pushed her chair back, the legs scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. She needed some air. The small garden was no solace either.