Gemotions

A cup of chamomile tea warmed Maya’s hands as she sat on the worn, floral-patterned sofa. The low hum of the refrigerator, the gentle tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway – these were the sounds that shaped her early memories. She’d spent hours reading in this very spot, the sunlight filtering through the lace curtains, the pages turning with the passing of each comfortable hour. The house was scheduled for demolition.

She dipped a biscuit into her tea, the crumbs falling onto the checkered blanket draped over her lap. Her gaze drifted over the room, from the chipped paint on the window frame to the slightly crooked picture on the wall. A deep sigh escaped her, a sound that felt more like contentment than sadness.