Gemotions

Eliza stared at the letter clutched in her hand, the paper thin and flimsy. Her brother, Thomas, had been ecstatic. He'd whooped with joy when the solicitor had read aloud the terms of their parents’ estate. He'd received the family's vineyard, a legacy built over generations. Eliza, however, received a small, unassuming apartment building in the city.

The setting sun cast long shadows across the living room, filling it with a sense of melancholic grayness. She felt a dull ache behind her eyes, the kind that came from staring into the void. The building meant responsibility, bills, headaches. The vineyard meant rolling hills, sunshine, the scent of grapes. The contrast was a sharp knife twisting in her gut.

She pictured Thomas, already planning renovations, brimming with passion. She wanted to feel something, anything, but the feeling was elusive. Instead, a bone-deep lethargy held her captive, making the apartment seem like a prison instead of a gift. She ran a hand over her face, the gesture conveying a profound exhaustion she couldn't articulate.