Gemotions

The antique rocking chair creaked rhythmically, a mocking counterpoint to Sarah’s racing heart. Her father, his face etched with worry, was taking an age to gather himself. “It was your mother’s favorite,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. Sarah's fingers drummed a frantic tattoo on the mahogany armrest.

The room felt small, the air thick. Each slow, drawn-out word felt like a physical weight pressing down on her. She just wanted this done. Done and over. The bills were piling up, the bank was calling, and she had places to be.

Her jaw clenched. She needed to breathe, to move, to *do*.