Gemotions

The card was a small, bright beacon of mystery amidst the pile of bills and junk mail. Clara stood in the entryway, the unwelcome paper clutched in her hand. She pressed her lips together, her expression tight. Who would do this?

She returned to the kitchen and made coffee, her movements jerky. She poured, and then poured again, spilling some onto the counter. She barely noticed. She sat at the table and stared at the card. It was a cheap, generic offering, as if the sender knew nothing about her beyond the date.

She felt a wave of cold wash over her. It wasn't threatening, exactly. More like a chill, a persistent nagging feeling that things were not as they seemed. She drank her coffee quickly, the bitterness doing nothing to ground her.