Gemotions

The antique clock on the mantelpiece in the dusty attic ticked with a relentless, maddening precision. Eleanor’s stomach churned, and she clutched at the edge of the velvet armchair as she waited for her brother, Thomas, to arrive. The air was thick with the scent of mothballs and forgotten things. She chewed on her lip, a nervous habit she hadn't managed to break.

The will reading was set for precisely 2 PM. She knew. She had to know. The lawyer's voice echoed in the room, detailing property and investments. Thomas was awarded the lion’s share. Eleanor could not process anything.

“And, to Eleanor,” the solicitor continued, “the original manuscript of your grandmother’s unpublished poetry collection, along with all associated copyright.” Eleanor could not recall writing poetry. Thomas shot her a look, a mixture of bewilderment and something else she couldn’t quite place.