Gemotions

The chipped porcelain mug felt heavy in Clara's trembling hands. Steam curled upwards, carrying the ghost of the chamomile tea she’d brewed hours ago, now lukewarm and forgotten. The real estate agent's words echoed in her mind: “Charming Victorian, full of character…though, a bit of history to it.” A history that turned out to be a gruesome unsolved murder. Now, the walls felt like they were closing in, mimicking the way her chest constricted with each shallow breath. She imagined the previous owner, also a woman, also alone. Had she felt this hollow ache, this overwhelming sense of being adrift, in the same rooms? Clara clutched the mug tighter, a desperate attempt to find some semblance of stability.