Gemotions

The late afternoon sun poured through the open window of her small apartment, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Clara sat on her balcony, wrapped in a comfortable blanket, a steaming mug of tea warming her hands. She gazed out at the cityscape, feeling an inner... calmness, settle over her.

A street musician began to play below, and she recognized the opening notes. It was "Golden Hour," a song she wrote years ago. A busker’s voice, with a slight rasp to it, carried the lyrics. She smiled, listening to his interpretation. She felt the corners of her mouth twitch upwards. She had written this for people to feel something, and it seemed to be working.