Gemotions

It wasn’t the words, it was the tone. A blandly polite, almost dismissive tone that felt worse than a direct insult. Grace reread the final paragraph, her lip curling slightly in distaste. Her carefully constructed argument, her impassioned plea for help, apparently meant nothing.

She slowly leaned back in her chair, the leather creaking in protest. Her hands, usually active, lay limp in her lap. The room, usually her sanctuary, felt cold and sterile. The sunlight, streaming through the window, seemed to mock her.

She closed her eyes, letting the silence of the room envelop her. When she opened them, she felt a dampness on her cheeks. She quickly brushed away the tears, but the tightness in her chest remained.