Gemotions

The demolition crew’s truck idled outside, its engine a low growl that vibrated through the floorboards. Sarah clutched the chipped ceramic mug, her knuckles bone-white. Each creak of the house, usually comforting, now felt like a deliberate taunt, a prelude to the inevitable. She jumped at a bird’s harsh cry, convinced it was a signal, a warning.

She kept glancing at the windows, expecting to see a figure – a sneering foreman, a curious neighbor, someone judging her. The curtains, she decided, weren’t quite closed enough. She yanked them shut, plunging the living room into a dim, uneasy twilight.

The silence was worse. She strained to hear the rhythmic thud of the wrecking ball, the first devastating blow. Every tick of the grandfather clock in the hall was a hammer blow to her sanity. She felt a cold sweat prickle her skin.