Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows of Eleanor’s antique-filled parlor. She clutched the worn, leather-bound book to her chest, the words – *Eleanor Ainsworth: A Life* – embossed in faded gold. It felt heavy, a burden and a treasure at the same time. The author, a woman she’d never met, had somehow woven her entire existence into these pages.

A small, choked sound escaped her lips as she opened the book. The paper, thin and brittle, rustled like autumn leaves. She turned to the chapter about her first love, a boy with unruly brown hair and a laugh that used to fill her world. A single tear traced a path down her cheek, landing on a passage describing their first kiss, the taste of cherry Chapstick.

She closed her eyes, imagining the boy's face, the long-forgotten scent of his cologne. The past, once vivid, now felt like a fragile dream.