Rain lashed against the windows, mirroring the storm brewing inside Leo. He hadn't left his childhood bedroom in three days, the curtains drawn tight against the world. The only light came from the flickering screen of his laptop, illuminating a face etched with shadows. Their parents’ will arrived this morning. Leo's sister, Clara, had been the one to retrieve it. A phone call earlier had gone something like this: "Guess what? We have the paperwork… so, yeah. Dad's workshop is yours." Leo mumbled a response, feeling the words stick in his throat. He thought about the workshop, the smell of sawdust and varnish, and the memory did not elicit joy.
He picked at the chipped paint on the window frame, the wood cold and unyielding beneath his fingertips. It seemed as though everything was cold and unyielding. The will revealed that Clara inherited the family home, a sprawling Victorian monstrosity that Leo had always found oppressive. His life, he realized, felt exactly like the home—oppressive. He was sure Clara would be more thrilled, but he could only envision the dust bunnies collecting in the corners of his mind.
A heavy sigh escaped him, a sound filled with a weariness that settled deep in his bones. He knew he should be grateful, that he was lucky. He felt nothing.