Gemotions

The dust motes danced in the afternoon light filtering through the living room window, as if putting on a show. Sarah ran her hand over the smooth, polished wood of the antique coffee table. It was a beautiful piece, a treasure she'd found at a flea market. It suddenly felt contaminated.

She’d been so proud of her new home. She’d carefully chosen every detail, from the color of the paint to the placement of the furniture. Now, the vibrant colors seemed muted, the furniture, mocking. According to the police records, someone had been murdered in this very room.

She sat heavily on the sofa, the cushions sinking under her weight. She pictured the scene: the struggle, the fear, the finality. Her breath hitched. The thought was like a punch to the gut. The air in the room felt too thick, too close. She would have to go to the store to get more air freshener.