Gemotions

The click of the lock, the metallic echo, was a comfort to Amelia. She spent hours now, the small hours of the morning, pacing her apartment, listening. To the silence. To any noise. The wind whistling through the gaps in the window frames felt like a whisper of unknown intentions. The letter arrived with the morning post, a thick, expensive paper bearing a familiar crest. He hadn’t forgotten. He never did.

She moved to the kitchen and made herself a pot of tea, the clinking of the ceramic mug a familiar ritual that somehow calmed her. The envelope remained unopened on the counter, a silent accusation. She watched the steam curl from the cup, the scent of bergamot a small solace in the vast emptiness of her anxiety. She considered burning it.