Gemotions

The contractor’s clipboard slipped from Martha’s numb fingers, landing with a clatter on the cracked concrete of the front porch. A gust of wind whipped a strand of her grey hair across her face, stinging her eyes. She hadn't slept in three days, her stomach a tight knot of anxiety. The house, her childhood home, stood silhouetted against the bruised purple of the approaching dusk. It looked impossibly small, vulnerable. She’d spent countless hours here, laughing, crying, dreaming. Now, the wrecking ball was scheduled for tomorrow.

“Ma’am, you alright?” the burly foreman asked, his voice a low rumble.

Martha swallowed, attempting a smile that felt foreign on her face. “Fine. Just… fine.” She gestured weakly toward the house. "Do you… do you have to do this?" The words felt thin, flimsy, barely audible above the rising wind.

Her gaze drifted to the window of her old bedroom, a familiar ache blooming in her chest. She remembered sitting on the windowsill, gazing out at the star-dusted night sky. Now, the window seemed to be staring back at her, a silent, hollow eye.