Gemotions

The key scraped in the lock, a sound that sliced through the pre-dawn quiet. Sarah hesitated, her hand still gripping the cold metal. Inside, the familiar scent of old books and pot roast hung heavy in the air. She took a deep breath, trying to steady the frantic hammering in her chest. This wasn't supposed to be happening.

Her mother's voice, chirping from the kitchen, sent a jolt of electricity through her. "Sarah? Is that you, dear? I made your favorite, apple cinnamon oatmeal." Sarah mumbled a greeting, her throat suddenly dry. The house felt smaller, the walls closing in, as if each object held a memory, a judgment. She felt the sudden urge to flee, to run back to her empty apartment, but the weight of her belongings – and her failure – anchored her feet.