Gemotions

The chipped porcelain doll sat on the dusty shelf, its painted eyes seeming to follow Clara around the room. Her grandmother, the doll's former owner, wanted to sell it. The weight in her chest was oppressive, like a physical thing. She traced the cracks in the doll’s face, a mirror of the fissures in her own heart.

Her mother’s voice, sharp and brisk, sliced through the quiet. “Clara, are you even listening? We need the money. And it’s just a doll.” Clara squeezed her eyes shut, a stinging sensation behind them. The house felt too big, the air too thick.

She wandered outside, the setting sun painting the sky in garish hues. The garden, once a vibrant tapestry of color, now seemed dull and lifeless. She kicked at a loose stone, sending it skittering across the cracked paving.