Gemotions

The chipped porcelain doll, a childhood companion, felt heavy in her hands. Her aunt, Margaret, announced the decision over Sunday dinner. “It's time to let go,” she'd said.

A chill ran down her spine. The doll, with its painted eyes, seemed to stare back at her with an eerie sadness. She ran out of the dining room.

She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. The house seemed to spin. Everything was shifting, changing.

She had to do something, anything, to save the doll. She began to rapidly search the house, her breath coming in ragged gasps.