Gemotions

The pounding started at precisely 8:00 AM. Sarah flinched, even though she knew it was coming. The relentless, rhythmic thudding from next door, where the Millers were finally redoing their kitchen, felt like someone was trying to hammer a hole into her skull. She pulled the covers over her head, burying herself in the suffocating darkness, but the noise still seeped through. It was a week since David had passed, and every sound, every sight, everything felt amplified, unbearably sharp.

She hadn't eaten anything all day. Just a cup of lukewarm tea. Her stomach rumbled, but the idea of food made her want to vomit. She kept picturing David laughing, the way his eyes would crinkle at the corners. The memory, usually a comfort, now felt like a fresh wound.

He’d wanted to remodel the bathroom. “It’ll be like a spa, my love,” he’d said, his voice full of that annoying, endearing optimism. Now, she was alone in their too-quiet house, surrounded by the remnants of his life, and the only sound was the incessant hammering.