Gemotions

The tiny, cracked phone on the kitchen table held a single, missed call from a number she didn't recognize. On the screen was the number, but beneath it was a name: "Mon cœur." Her jaw clenched. She knew no one who would use the word “heart” to describe themselves. The phone felt heavy in her hand, the screen glowing like a malevolent eye. Sarah had always said she didn't like French.

She stared out the window, the garden a riot of overgrown weeds. Her vision blurred, and her breath hitched in her chest. The air seemed thin, difficult to draw in. The phone slid from her grasp, hitting the table with a soft thud. Every memory felt like a fresh wound.