Gemotions

The lump in Eleanor’s throat felt as hard as concrete. She forced a smile as she walked her son, Finn, into his classroom. Mrs. Peterson. Her Mrs. Peterson. Her childhood, a kaleidoscope of bright colors, seemed to have suddenly turned sepia.

The room looked exactly as she remembered it: the same chipped paint on the window frames, the same smell of floor wax and stale chalk dust. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped Finn's small hand.

She mumbled a rushed goodbye, her voice barely a whisper. Outside, the world felt too loud, too bright. She couldn't shake the sensation of being back in the uncomfortable, itchy uniform she had worn decades before. The walk home felt endless, her footsteps echoing her heavy mood.