Gemotions

"It's just a building, Grandma," her grandson had pleaded, his voice tinged with the weary patience of the young. She ignored him, staring out the window at the empty lot next door, the place where her neighbor's children had played. Her hands, gnarled with age, clutched her walking stick so tight that her knuckles were white.

She understood the logic, the economics, the need for "progress." But the ache in her chest was a constant companion. It swelled every time she looked at the crew outside, fiddling with their equipment.

She had spent ninety years within those walls. It was her home, her life, her everything.

She wasn't going anywhere. She turned away from her grandson and settled into her favorite armchair. The demolition wouldn't happen on her watch.