Gemotions

The chipped mug warmed Amelia’s hands, but the tremors still ran through her. A box, tied with a ribbon the colour of a bruised plum, sat on her desk. It had arrived this morning, addressed in a familiar, sprawling hand. Liam. She hadn't seen him in five years.

She walked to the window, the blinds still drawn, and peered out at the muted grey street. The silence in the classroom was oppressive, broken only by the rhythmic thud of her own pulse in her ears. She hadn't expected to feel like this. She’d always considered herself a composed person.

With a deep breath that felt more like a gulp, Amelia returned to the box. Her fingers fumbled with the ribbon, the paper crinkling loudly in the quiet. Inside, nestled on a bed of tissue paper, was a framed photograph. Liam, grinning, posed with a group of friends, all of them looking impossibly young. Below the photo, a small silver plaque read: “Thank you, Mrs. Davies. For everything.”