Gemotions

The realtor’s voice was like fingernails on a chalkboard, all polite platitudes and promises of progress. Amelia had tuned her out hours ago. The woman kept gesturing toward the blueprints, pointing out the "potential" and the "investment opportunities." Amelia focused on the cracked windowpane in the dining room, her fingers tracing the jagged lines.

The tremor in her hand was a familiar friend. It accompanied the tightening in her chest, the feeling of being squeezed from the inside out. They had been trying to coax her out of the house all morning.

"But... the papers are signed, dear," the realtor said. Amelia turned and looked at her, and the words, with their polite disdain, brought forth a fresh wave of defiant emotion. She walked toward the front door, and locked it. Turning to face the realtor again, she grabbed the heavy brass key ring and dropped it into her pocket, the keys clinking reassuringly.