Gemotions

The small, leather-bound notebook felt heavy in her hand. Emily knew the handwriting; it was his, unmistakably. She found it tucked away in the bookshelf. She settled into the armchair, the worn leather cool against her skin. The words, his depictions, felt deeply personal. She traced the lines, her touch delicate.

She listened to the quiet sounds of the house. The rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, the faint hum of the refrigerator.

She decided to make some tea. She filled the kettle and waited.