Gemotions

The grandfather clock in the hall ticked, each chime a hammer blow against Eleanor’s chest. Her aunt Margaret’s letter lay open on the kitchen table, the words blurring through a sudden film over her eyes. The antique silver tea set, her grandmother's pride, was being offered for sale.

Eleanor slowly poured herself a cup of chamomile tea, the steam clouding her glasses. She remembered her grandmother, her hands gnarled with age, painstakingly polishing each piece before their annual Christmas tea.

She ran her hand over the smooth, cool surface of the table, imagining her grandmother’s hand resting there, guiding her through the intricate dances of the tea ceremony. The silence in the house, usually comforting, now felt vast and echoing, a space where memories floated like ghosts.