Gemotions

“Impossible,” I whispered, staring at the newspaper clipping. Mrs. Gable, the woman who volunteered at the library and always wore a floral dress, had just inherited a vast fortune. I had often thought about Mrs. Gable, her kind eyes, her gentle spirit, wondering how she made ends meet on her fixed income. I always enjoyed our chats.

I walked over to my bookshelf, tracing my fingers over the spines of my favorite books, the ones I'd discuss with Mrs. Gable every week. I thought about the hours we'd spent talking about literature, about life.

A knot formed in my stomach. I found myself thinking about all the things I didn’t know, all the assumptions I’d made. I felt as though something precious had been lost, something irreplaceable. I went and poured myself a glass of water, then sat in silence.