Gemotions

Clara drummed her fingers against the steering wheel, the staccato rhythm echoing the frantic beat of her heart. She hadn’t slept well for weeks, plagued by disjointed dreams of crumbling walls and empty rooms. Now, here she was, parked at the curb, watching the backhoe bite into the brick of her childhood home. A fine tremor ran through her arms.

The air felt thick, heavy, as though pressing down on her chest. She gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were white. Her gaze was fixed on the gabled roof, where, as a child, she had imagined dragons nested.

"It's just a building," she muttered, the words sounding hollow even to her own ears. But the lump in her throat told a different story.