Gemotions

The cursor on the laptop screen blinked, a mocking metronome keeping time with Eleanor's racing pulse. The listing for 14 Willow Creek Lane stared back at her, a vibrant photo showcasing the freshly painted clapboard and manicured lawn. A knot tightened in her chest. She hadn’t been back to the house, to her childhood, in a decade.

She clicked the "View Photos" button. Each image was a fresh wave of something akin to nausea. The living room, bathed in sunlight, the fireplace, where she'd sat with her father on winter nights, now an impersonal focal point. The kitchen, where her mother’s cinnamon rolls had always perfumed the air, felt sterile and foreign.

Eleanor swiveled in her chair, the squeak a grating sound in the otherwise quiet apartment. She felt a profound weight in her shoulders, a drag on her spirit, as if rooted to the floor. The same routine everyday, the same grey monotony. She needed to *do* something. Anything.