Gemotions

The notice, a stark white rectangle, quivered slightly in Amelia’s trembling hand. It announced the building’s conversion. She felt a cold seep into her bones, a chill that had nothing to do with the October air currently whistling through her drafty window frames.

Her fingers, usually nimble when sketching, fumbled with the clasp of her worn leather satchel. She needed a cigarette, now. The image of packing up her life, of the sheer upheaval of it all, choked her.

The apartment itself, though small and a little worn, was her haven. The peeling paint held the ghosts of her past, the creaking floorboards whispered stories only she knew. All of it felt precarious now, about to be ripped away.