Gemotions

The morning light, diffused by the lace curtains, painted soft stripes across Eleanor’s face. She stretched languidly in the guest bed, a smile playing on her lips. It had been months since she’d slept this soundly. The familiar scent of her mother's rose-petal soap wafted from the bathroom, a comforting aroma that transported her back to childhood.

Downstairs, the clinking of china and the gentle hum of the radio promised a leisurely breakfast. She rose slowly, feeling no rush, no pressure, just the gentle pull of the morning.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," her mother called as she descended the stairs. Eleanor's father was already at the table, reading the newspaper, a steaming mug of coffee in front of him. A deep breath filled her lungs as she embraced her mother and kissed her on the cheek. This felt right.