Gemotions

The worn, leather-bound journal lay open on her desk, filled with her shaky handwriting. She'd been translating her great-grandfather's letters, a project meant to connect her to someone she had never known.

Then, an email. Another translator, a man named Mark, was working on the same letters. The same man, the same story.

They met at the library, surrounded by the scent of old books.

"Strange, isn't it?" he said, pushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “It’s like he’s trying to tell us something.” He gave her a photocopy of an old photograph. She knew the woman.