Gemotions

The musty air of the house clung to Clara like a shroud. She wrinkled her nose, pulling her scarf tighter around her neck. Her brother, Leo, was already happily poking around the living room, exclaiming over some chipped porcelain doll. Clara, however, found herself wanting to scrub every surface, bleach every corner.

“Grandma really let things go, didn’t she?” Leo said, oblivious. Clara grunted in response, her gaze sweeping over the faded floral wallpaper. It seemed to judge her, to whisper of a life she never wanted to know. The whole house was a monument to Grandma Mildred's eccentricities, a gilded cage of chintz and dust.

She kicked at a tapestry-covered footstool, sending a cloud of dust motes dancing in the weak sunlight. The air scratched at her throat. This whole situation was an imposition, a colossal waste of her time. She’d rather be at her gallery, not sifting through relics.