Gemotions

The notice, a stark white rectangle, felt like a slap in the face. Margaret crumpled it in her fist, the paper crackling like a defiant fire. Her pulse thrummed against her temples, a frantic rhythm against the quiet hum of the refrigerator. She’d been in this building for fifteen years, a lifetime. Now, the landlord wanted to sell.

She paced her living room, her bare feet slapping the hardwood floors. Each footstep was a hollow echo, amplifying the silence. The familiar scent of old books and brewing coffee felt tainted, somehow, as if the air itself had shifted. She needed a distraction. Grabbing her keys, she slammed the door a bit harder than necessary.

The morning air outside was crisp, but it didn't soothe her. She walked aimlessly, the sun a mocking presence in her eyes. Every crack in the sidewalk, every familiar tree, seemed to mock her with their permanence. Her apartment, her sanctuary, was becoming a commodity.