Gemotions

The sheer scale of the fallen birch, a white giant now broken against the green of Mrs. Peterson's lawn, was almost comical. But Claire didn’t find it amusing. She clutched her coffee cup, the ceramic cold against her trembling hands.

The event, the disruption, felt like an omen.

She had so many things she *should* do, so many appointments, so many responsibilities. But she felt incapable of moving. The sofa, a comfortable cocoon, held her hostage. Her legs felt heavy, useless. The world seemed a million miles away.

The air in the room felt stagnant, as if the oxygen had been depleted. A scream formed in her throat but never escaped.