Gemotions

The sunlight sliced through the blinds, a sharp, unwelcome intrusion into Clara’s bedroom. She wanted to burrow under the covers, to remain in the dim sanctuary of her sleep-addled mind. But the landlord’s message was a hard fact. Condos. It seemed the whole world was becoming shiny and new while she was being pushed out.

She dragged herself out of bed, the floorboards cold beneath her feet. The apartment, normally filled with the comforting scent of her grandmother's potpourri, felt suffocating. The walls seemed to be closing in, the familiar objects of her life – the worn armchair, the chipped teacup – suddenly imbued with a sense of impermanence. She wandered into the kitchen, a hollow ache in her stomach, and poured herself a cup of coffee. It tasted like ash.