Gemotions

A chill snaked up Clara’s spine as she saw the notebook on the kitchen counter. It wasn't the notebook itself, a simple spiral bound book, but the messy, unfamiliar script scrawled across the cover. It was her grandmother’s language, Quechua, a tongue she herself had only barely touched. A tremor shook her. She picked up the book, her fingers tracing the unfamiliar characters.

The scent of coffee filled the air, and she knew her husband, David, was already awake. He was humming in the other room. A familiar, comforting sound. She should feel relief, but instead, her breath hitched. The words, the language, were a private thing, a link to her roots, and it felt violated to see them here, in his handwriting.

She heard David approach, his footsteps echoing in the hallway. Her grip tightened on the notebook, her knuckles turning white. She spun around, pretending to be examining a spice rack. "Morning," she said, her voice sounding unnaturally high.