Gemotions

The sun beat down on the garden, making the roses droop in the heat. Emily trailed her fingers through the dry earth, feeling the grit between her nails. She was supposed to be weeding, but she couldn't muster the energy. The antique doll, the family heirloom, lay in her attic. Her grandmother was insistent on its sale.

She wandered back inside, the heat chasing her. The house felt stuffy, oppressive. She grabbed a glass of water, took a sip, and immediately put it down, the taste flat and uninteresting. She kicked at the leg of a chair, the wood scraping against the floor.

The thought of the doll – the painted eyes, the intricate lace dress – sparked no joy, only a dull, persistent emptiness.