Gemotions

The chipped paint on the front door mocked her. Each day felt the same: wake up, go to work, come home, collapse. The house, her haven, was now a source of dread. A previous tenant. A suicide. The previous owner. The agent had buried the information in the fine print. She hadn’t even bothered to read it. Now, it was all she could think about.

The mail lay unopened on the doormat, another pile of bills, more demands. She’d forgotten to water the plants, the leaves wilting in protest. The silence in the house was deafening, broken only by the incessant ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. She just wanted to crawl back into bed and disappear.