Gemotions

The musty air of the house clung to Amelia like a shroud. Her brother, Thomas, was already in the kitchen, carefully measuring flour for her grandmother's famous apple pie. Amelia slammed the front door shut, the sound echoing through the silent rooms. She knew what was expected of her: sell the house, split the money, move on. But every fiber of her being resisted the thought.

She stalked through the living room, kicking a chipped porcelain doll off the dusty mantlepiece. It shattered on the hardwood floor, and she didn't flinch. Good. Let the house feel the same ache she did. Let it understand the raw refusal blooming in her chest.

Thomas called from the kitchen, "Amelia, are you alright?"

“Just peachy,” she called back, her voice tight. She grabbed a can of paint from the garage and stomped upstairs, the steps creaking under her weight. Tonight, the walls of her grandmother's beloved sunroom would be something other than the same faded yellow.