Gemotions

The morning sun, usually a cheerful visitor, felt like a spotlight on dust motes. Sarah dragged herself to the door, the linoleum cold beneath her bare feet. Another day. Another ache in her chest that felt unrelated to anything specific.

A brown cardboard box sat on the welcome mat. The address was clear, but the name wasn't hers. "Brenda Miller," the label declared in bold black letters. Sighing, Sarah wrestled the box inside.

It was heavy. She shuffled to the living room, collapsing onto the sofa with a groan. Inside, nestled in packing peanuts, was a delicate porcelain doll, its painted eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. A wave of melancholy washed over her.