Gemotions

The antique quilt, a riot of colors and intricate stitching, lay spread out on the old bed. Aunt Clara’s note was clipped to it, a flimsy piece of paper detailing its worth. Sarah traced the delicate patterns with her finger, the warmth of the fabric failing to penetrate the icy chill that had settled in her chest.

She felt a hollowness, a vast emptiness that echoed the silence of the house. The scent of lavender and mothballs, once comforting, now felt suffocating. Her hands shook as she picked up the phone, dialing her cousin’s number. The dial tone seemed to stretch on forever, a painful, drawn-out note of impending finality. She hung up abruptly.