Gemotions

The antique shop was normally a haven, filled with the comforting weight of history. But today, the chipped teacups and dusty paintings felt oppressive, mirroring the hollowness in Eleanor’s stomach. She'd dropped her favorite vase this morning, a clumsy accident born of a lack of coordination. She’d cried, the shards of porcelain mirroring her shattered sense of self.

A tall man, browsing the shelves, turned, his face pale and drawn. He held a small, tarnished silver locket. He looked at her and then the locket and said in a hushed tone, “You find these moments, these breaks, hard too?”

Eleanor’s throat constricted, and she looked away.