Gemotions

The old quilt, painstakingly sewn by her great-grandmother, lay folded on the bed. Her sister, a whirlwind of practical energy, was insistent. “It’s just fabric, Maya. We need the money for the renovations.”

Maya traced the intricate patterns of the quilt, each stitch a memory. Her fingers trembled. The air in the room felt thick, heavy. Her chest felt constricted, as if a weight was pressing down on her.

She looked at her sister, her mouth opening but no sound coming out. The words lodged in her throat, a jumble of protest and despair. The colors of the quilt suddenly blurred, the room swaying.