Gemotions

The antique clock in the hallway seemed to mock Clara. Tick. Tock. Each second stretched into an eternity. She walked from the living room to the kitchen, then back again, her bare feet cold on the polished wood floors. Outside, the wind howled a lonely tune, mirroring the emptiness she felt. She reached for the remote, but couldn't bring herself to switch on the television. The silence was deafening, the shadows in the corners of the room dancing with an unsettling energy. That’s when the memory of Mark’s phone behaviour flooded back.

She decided to make tea, the ritual a comforting anchor in the disquiet. She focused intently on the kettle's whistle, a small victory over the swirling anxieties in her mind. But the kettle's boiling sound was not enough.