Gemotions

Eliza traced the outline of a chipped teacup, turning it slowly in her hands. The porcelain was thin, almost translucent, and she could see the light filtering through. The house, her grandmother's house, felt alien in the silence. It had been years since she last stepped foot inside, and now it was hers, and her brother's.

She walked from room to room, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpets. The air was still, heavy with the absence of life. She stopped in the kitchen, running her fingers along the smooth, cool surface of the countertop. She pictured her grandmother, humming while she baked, the aroma of cinnamon and apples filling the air. A pang hit her chest, sudden and sharp.

She reached for the old cookbook on the shelf, its pages worn and stained. Opening it, she saw a recipe for apple pie, in her grandmother's neat, looping handwriting. She felt a knot forming in her stomach, a tightness she couldn't explain. She wanted to bake it, to bring the warmth back into this cold house, but her hands felt leaden.