Gemotions

The attic seemed to hold its breath, waiting. The air, heavy with disuse, clung to Claire as she ascended the stairs. The previous owners had left a collection of mismatched furniture up there. She gazed at it.

She saw a rocking chair, its paint peeling, the seat worn thin. She sat down, pushing herself back and forth. The motion was rhythmic, but it failed to soothe. She watched the dust motes dance in the light.

She rose from the chair. The attic, the house, the world – everything felt as though it were happening at a distance. She retreated down the stairs, leaving the rocker to its silent vigil.