Gemotions

The movers were already dismantling the kitchen, the heart of the home. Amelia watched them, her back against the doorway. She noted the practiced efficiency, the way they carefully packed each dish, each utensil. A lump formed in her throat.

The scent of lemon polish, her mother's favorite, filled the air, mingling with the dust of the old house. Her gaze landed on the empty space where the stove once stood. She remembered the aroma of cookies baking, the warmth that always filled the kitchen during the Christmas holidays.

She crossed her arms and looked at the wall, thinking about the many meals, laughter, and family gatherings in the room. She remained where she was, simply taking in the scene. She watched them, not moving to help, not interrupting, as though observing an ancient ritual.