Gemotions

The antique oak chest in the spare room had always been off-limits. Eleanor knew this, had religiously respected the unspoken boundary set by Arthur. But now, with a disquiet gnawing at her, fueled by a late-night phone call she'd overheard, she found her hand reaching for the heavy brass latch. Her pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs as she lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten woolen blankets, was a small, leather-bound journal. The cover was plain, the title scrawled in Arthur’s familiar, elegant script: “Things to Do.” A shiver traced its way down her spine. Each page, filled with meticulous handwriting, contained a list of aspirations. One entry, highlighted in red ink, was about a trip to the Amalfi Coast. She had been wanting to go there for years, and he had vehemently resisted.

Her jaw tightened. Her breath hitched. The air in the room felt suddenly thin, as if she were at a great altitude. She felt a burning in her gut, a tightening around her chest.