Gemotions

The late afternoon sun slanted across the porch, warming Amelia's face. She stretched, limbs lengthening in a slow, deliberate movement as she leaned back in the wicker chair. The gentle creak of the wood was almost a lullaby. A half-finished glass of iced tea sat on the small table beside her, condensation beading on its surface. She picked it up, took a slow sip, and let the cool liquid trickle down her throat. Inside the house, a dog barked and a clock chimed the hour of four. Time, it seemed, was irrelevant.

Her fingers brushed against the rough surface of a box beneath the table. Curious, she drew it closer and tilted it open. A jumble of old photos, dried flowers, and letters spilled out.

Her eyes fell upon a familiar script, a younger, less steady version of her own handwriting. The address on the envelope was for her mother, and the postmark was from twenty years ago. She carefully opened it, the paper brittle and thin beneath her touch.