Gemotions

The porcelain doll, her mother's, sat on the mantelpiece, its painted eyes seeming to follow Clara's every move. Her brother, Mark, was practically drooling, discussing auction houses and potential bids. The scent of stale coffee and desperation filled the small living room.

Clara felt a flush rising in her cheeks. The doll wasn't just a thing; it was a memory, a tangible link to a past she wasn't ready to let go of. She found herself clutching her hands into fists.

“Well, you know, I think it’s a waste to just have it gathering dust,” Mark said, his voice a little too loud. Clara picked up the doll, her fingers tracing the delicate details of the lace dress. Without a word, she turned and walked upstairs, the doll clutched tightly against her chest, the door closing with a definitive click.