Gemotions

Rain hammered against the windowpane, mirroring the relentless drumming in Eleanor’s chest. A delivery man had just left a bouquet on her doorstep, vibrant lilies and crimson roses spilling from the vase. No card. Her hands, suddenly clammy, fumbled with the blooms, searching for a hidden message. Finding none, she slammed the door shut, the gesture rattling the fragile peace of the hallway.

She marched into the kitchen, the scent of the flowers thick and cloying. The ceramic mug she'd been cradling earlier, now cold tea and forgotten, sat on the counter. She stared at it, a dull ache blossoming in her temples. Who? Why? The questions swirled, mocking the silence of the apartment.

The lilies, in their arrogant perfection, seemed to smirk. With a strangled cry, she swept the vase off the counter, the shattering of glass the only sound for an awful, heavy moment.