Gemotions

The antique clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly, each second a hammer blow against Eleanor’s skull. The house, usually a sanctuary, felt oppressive, the shadows in the corners deepening as the day drew to a close. She sat by the window, the worn armchair doing little to soothe her.

Her niece’s drawings arrived in a hastily scribbled note from her sister. A drawing of a towering, thin figure. It was the same one Eleanor used to whisper secrets to, as a child, the one she’d all but forgotten.

The weight of the past pressed on her, a physical sensation she couldn’t shake. The memories, once faint whispers, now clamored for attention. Eleanor felt a powerful longing for something she couldn't name, a past she could never truly reclaim.