Gemotions

The notice had been taped to the door for weeks, but Elara only looked at it properly today. The red lettering seemed to bleed into the peeling paint of the porch. Her fingers traced the chipped wood, a familiar pattern from a thousand forgotten afternoons. The demolition crew was due tomorrow. She turned the key in the lock, the tumblers groaning like an old man’s bones.

Inside, dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight. She didn't bother to open the curtains. The house held its breath, awaiting its final exhale. The scent of lavender from her grandmother's potpourri lingered faintly in the air, a ghost of comfort. She walked through the rooms, each step measured, each creak of the floorboards a gentle sigh.

She picked up a chipped teacup from the kitchen counter. It had been her mother's. She set it back down, carefully, and went to sit on the back steps, feeling the sun on her face.