Gemotions

The house was too quiet, too still. The move had been a necessity, a way to start anew after the loss. The grief, though, remained, a constant companion. She felt like a tightly wound spring, ready to unravel.

She was trying to unpack in the library, the last box holding a collection of her late husband’s books. As she was rearranging them, she noticed a slight indentation in the wall behind the bookshelves. A section of the wood gave way. A secret room.

The room was small, with a single easel and a half-finished painting. The canvas held a landscape that looked hauntingly familiar. She stepped back, the world spinning.