Gemotions

The chipped mug warmed Amelia's hands, but the tea did nothing to soothe the tremor in her fingers. Mark was late, and she’d been sitting here for an hour, replaying the phone call. His voice, usually so boisterous, had sounded… flat. Like the batteries in a forgotten toy.

She traced the cracks in the table, the wood worn smooth by years of shared meals and whispered secrets. He’d said something about needing to talk. The words hung in the air, heavy and undefined, a threat of an unknown storm. This particular memory, the day they’d found the old, rusted swing set in the abandoned park, felt like the eye of a hurricane.

The sudden squeak of the door made her jump. Mark stood there, his usual messy hair plastered to his forehead by the rain. His gaze, usually so open and easy, danced around the room, avoiding hers. He mumbled a greeting, his shoulders hunched. The forgotten swing set seemed like a lifetime ago.