Gemotions

The rhythmic click of the knitting needles was a counterpoint to the gentle chirping of crickets outside. Eleanor sat on her porch swing, the cool evening air caressing her face. The yarn, a soft, creamy wool, felt soothing against her fingertips. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. This was her favorite time of day. This was hers.

A voice, too close for comfort, broke through the quiet. "Eleanor! Fancy meeting you here!" Standing by the gate, a girl with the same name as her childhood best friend. A stranger with the same face.

Eleanor's hands stilled, the needles dropping to her lap. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "I don't believe we've met." The crickets seemed to fade away. The world got quiet.