Gemotions

"Another late night, sweetheart?" Emily's voice was flat, devoid of its usual sparkle. The kitchen clock ticked loudly, each second a painful reminder of lost time. She had barely managed to eat the dinner she had cooked. She set the dishes in the dishwasher, each movement slow and laborious.

She noticed a stack of notebooks on the counter, neatly arranged. Curiosity, and something else, a premonition, tugged at her. The top one was open to a page filled with handwriting. A draft of a novel, with a title that felt like a punch in the gut: "The Slow Burn." It was about her, a woman slowly extinguishing, her flame flickering.