Gemotions

The old woman sat on her porch swing, her gaze fixed on the house across the street. Her hands, gnarled with age, were clasped tightly in her lap. The air was thick with the scent of freshly cut grass, but she noticed the subtle metallic tang of the machines down the street. It did not belong there.

Each creak of the swing seemed to amplify the silence. She had been watching the house since dawn. Every movement within the construction crew was scrutinized, every tool they carried catalogued in her mind. She knew the demolition schedule better than they did.

She felt a tremor run through her. Every shadow seemed to lengthen, mocking the approaching inevitable. Her eyes narrowed. If they took her memories, they would take her last moments with them. She would not let them.