Gemotions

The newspaper crumpled in Amelia’s fist, the print smearing under her suddenly slick palms. “The Golden Spoon...closing after thirty years…” The headline swam before her eyes. Thirty years! She’d celebrated birthdays there, anniversaries, promotions. Her pulse hammered against her ribs, a frantic, insistent drumbeat.

She flung the paper onto the countertop. The ceramic plate, still bearing the remnants of her morning toast, shattered as it hit the floor. She didn't even flinch. All she could see was Mr. Henderson, the owner, his kind face framed by his silver hair, and the familiar scent of garlic and oregano that always filled the air.

Her breath hitched in her throat. She snatched her keys, her movements jerky and uncontrolled. She was going there. Now. She needed to understand. She needed to *fix* it.