Gemotions

The envelope felt foreign in Eliza's hand. It was brittle, thin, and the handwriting was undeniably hers, though the signature at the bottom bore the name she hadn't used in decades. She sat at her kitchen table, the early morning sun barely touching the room. The letter, penned to her estranged sister, sat unopened.

She picked at a stray thread on the tablecloth, her fingers tracing the faded pattern. Each movement was deliberate, slow, as if she were wading through molasses. The silence in the apartment pressed down on her, heavy and absolute. The unsaid words, the apologies, the bridges unbuilt – they were a weight she carried with her everywhere.