Gemotions

The paper crackled in Eleanor’s trembling hands. It wasn't the landlord's fault, she knew that. Old Mrs. Gable had always paid her rent late. The notice felt heavy, a weight on her chest. She remembered Mrs. Gable’s flour-dusted hands, the scent of lavender that always clung to her floral dresses.

“Oh, dear,” Eleanor murmured, her voice barely a whisper. She should call Mrs. Gable. She absolutely should. Eleanor rubbed her temples, trying to ward off the throbbing headache that threatened.

The worn wooden floorboards of the apartment suddenly seemed loud under her shuffling feet as she paced the narrow living room. The chipped paint on the walls suddenly felt like a fresh wound. She envisioned Mrs. Gable's frail figure, her wide, worried eyes. Eleanor bit her lip. She had to do *something*.