Gemotions

The news had hit Maya like a physical blow. The Old Spaghetti Mill, shuttering after fifty years. Her grandmother had brought her here every Friday night as a child.

She ran her hand over the worn, wooden table, the same one they always sat at. She could almost hear her grandmother’s voice, the stories she used to tell. A warmth spread through her, quickly followed by a strange, hollow ache.

Each corner of the restaurant, from the dimly lit bar to the bustling kitchen, held a memory. A smile, bittersweet, touched her lips. She made a mental note to call her mother.