Gemotions

"I don't understand why you have to go," her daughter had said to her that morning. She had tried to explain, but words seemed inadequate. The demolition felt like a death, a final severing of ties. The thought of it was a constant, dull ache.

She’d spent the morning packing, sorting through the remnants of a life. The air was thick with dust and the ghosts of memories. Each object, each photo, was a trigger, a reminder of what she was losing. Her hands trembled as she wrapped a chipped teacup in newspaper. The tea parties. The laughter. Gone.

She stopped and stared at the empty space where her childhood bed used to be. The bare room echoed with a silence that vibrated through her.