Gemotions

The cold seeping into the old stone of the cottage seemed to mirror the chill in Eleanor’s heart. Her brother, Thomas, had driven up from the city, his face etched with a rehearsed apology. He wanted the silver candlesticks. The ones their mother had always polished, the ones that had graced their dining table for as long as Eleanor could remember.

She sat in the armchair by the fire, the flames casting dancing shadows on the walls. She watched Thomas with a detached gaze, his hands nervously clenching and unclenching. He spoke of investments, of needing to secure their future. She listened, her mind distant. The candlesticks would disappear.

The wind howled outside, a mournful sound. Eleanor reached for her knitting needles, the rhythmic click-clack a small comfort. She began to work on a new scarf, the yarn sliding through her fingers. She just kept going, knitting and knitting. What else could she do?