Gemotions

The envelope, stark white and unforgiving, sat like a curse on the kitchen counter. Sarah couldn't bring herself to touch it. It felt like a trap. She walked around it, circling it like a wary wolf around a baited snare.

She began to check the locks on her windows, despite knowing they were already secured. The cold metal against her fingertips offered a small, fleeting sense of control. She checked them again. And again.

She cooked herself a pot of strong coffee, the familiar aroma a weak shield against the rising tide of panic. She kept the volume on the television low, listening intently for any unexpected noises, any indication of unwelcome company.

Every shadow seemed to lengthen, every sound sharpened. The knowledge in her mind was a cold and constant weight: she was alone, and she had to look after herself.