Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows, mimicking the frantic drumming in Martha's chest. The realtor had called, a hesitant voice delivering the news. *This house… well, it had a history.* Martha didn't want a history. She wanted a fresh start. And now, this.

She slammed the phone down, the plastic receiver rattling in its cradle. A history meant… what? Ghosts? Bad juju? She paced the living room, the newly polished hardwood floors gleaming under the dim light. She'd just finished repainting the walls a cheerful daffodil yellow. Now what?

Martha folded her arms, jaw set. She wouldn’t allow this to ruin her meticulously crafted sanctuary. She’d scrub the floors herself, every single inch. She’d plant roses in the garden, their thorns a physical barrier against any lingering negativity. This house was hers, and she'd make it perfect. The history was just… irrelevant.