Gemotions

Rain lashed against the attic window as Martha unfolded the brittle paper. The handwriting – hers, from a lifetime ago – was a frantic scrawl. She'd written it to her own mother, a woman now long gone, a woman she'd argued with for years. The letter was filled with apologies, with a desperate plea for understanding. A lump formed in her throat as she read the words, the ache of regret a familiar companion. She traced a finger across the ink, her vision blurring, the dust motes dancing in the weak sunlight felt like echoes of the past.