Gemotions

The antique clock in the living room ticked with a maddening regularity, each second a hammer blow against Sarah’s skull. She’d found the list tucked between the pages of her father's favorite book, a collection of poetry. The scent of old paper and leather clung to it, a phantom echo of him. She couldn't stop tapping her foot, a frantic rhythm against the hardwood floor. *Visit the Louvre*. Such a simple desire, yet it felt monumental.

Her stomach churned. Paris. Alone. The idea was overwhelming. Her hands wouldn't stop fidgeting, crumpling the delicate paper. She could feel a flush creeping up her neck, a telltale sign of her rising stress. The next item seemed to whisper to her: *Write a novel*. The idea brought her a sudden, harsh laugh. She couldn't even finish a grocery list without losing focus.