Gemotions

He watched his sister from the doorway, her back rigid as she surveyed the dusty attic. Sunlight, struggling through grimy windows, illuminated swirling dust motes, highlighting the layers of neglect. She'd called him to "help sort things out." He knew the real reason. The antique music box, his grandfather’s, sat on a high shelf. He'd never liked his sister, always bossy, always self-serving.

She ran a gloved hand along the faded wallpaper, a theatrical gesture of inspection. He stood, arms crossed, the silence amplifying the rhythmic thud of his own pulse. It felt like a deliberate act, a performance.

“Well?” she said, not even turning around. Her tone was dismissive. “What do you think it’s worth?” He said nothing, simply staring, his teeth clenched so tight it ached.