Gemotions

The porch swing creaked rhythmically, a gentle counterpoint to the chirping of crickets. Amelia leaned back, the woven seat molding perfectly to her spine. Sunlight dappled through the old oak, casting shifting patterns on the weathered wood of the house. A cool breeze brushed against her skin, carrying the scent of honeysuckle from the overgrown garden. She idly picked at a loose thread on her favorite sweater, her mind adrift in a sea of nothingness. The only sound louder than the crickets and the swing was the distant rumble of a car on the country road.