Gemotions

The chipped paint on the bedroom door felt like a physical representation of her current state. A grimace tightened around Clara's mouth as she pushed the door open. Her mother had clearly tried to make it nice – fresh sheets, a vase of flowers on the dresser – but it was a monument to her younger self, a reminder of everything she'd lost.

She found herself avoiding mirrors, the reflection of a stranger staring back. The vibrant hues of her life had faded to monochrome. Even her usually bright eyes seemed dulled, lacking the spark they once held.

Her father found her in the garden, listlessly pulling weeds. He wordlessly handed her a mug of tea, the steam a warm comfort against the chill in the air. She took a sip, the familiar taste doing little to soothe the rawness that settled deep in her chest.