Gemotions

She stared at the photograph, the edges of the paper curling with age. It was them, years ago, at the lake. Sun-drenched smiles, laughing faces. Amelia remembered the day differently.

"God, that water was freezing," Mark said, tracing a finger over his own smiling face. He chuckled, a sound that grated on her nerves.

Amelia nodded, her throat suddenly dry. She recalled the sun, yes, and the laughter. But more vividly, she remembered the claustrophobic panic of the reeds, the cold grip of something unseen, the way her breath hitched.

He was going on about how brave they both were. How they pushed through. He recalled the moment of triumph. She barely remembered the triumph.

Her palms felt slick. She wanted to bolt. She excused herself, muttering something about grabbing water. The photograph felt heavy in her gaze, a weight she was desperate to shed. The house had suddenly become a prison.