Gemotions

He stood in the doorway, a stranger in the familiar hallway of her childhood home. Mark. He was supposed to be Mark, the boy who'd spent countless summer days with her, mapping the woods behind her house. "I... I think you have the wrong person," he said, his brow furrowed. His voice was a flat monotone.

Her breath hitched. Her stomach plummeted, a sudden, sickening drop. She stepped back, bumping into the coat rack. The old wooden frame shuddered. Her pulse hammered against her ribs, a frantic, panicked rhythm. The air seemed to thicken, heavy and hard to breathe. The scent of pine needles, a smell that once brought comfort, now felt alien and menacing.