Gemotions

From the window of her small studio apartment, Clara watched the snow fall. Each flake, a delicate dance against the grey sky, was a perfect miniature. She sipped her tea, the warmth spreading through her body. Her brush moved across the canvas in slow, deliberate strokes, each color and shape a reflection of the stillness she felt inside.

The telephone's harsh ring cut through the quiet. A doctor, explaining a concerning mix-up of files, wanted her to come in immediately.

Clara put down her brush. The world seemed to tilt slightly, the edges of her world blurring.