Gemotions

The scent of mothballs and old books hit Oliver as soon as he opened the front door. He instinctively took a step back. The house seemed to exhale a sigh of age and neglect. His sister, Beatrice, was already inside, examining a tarnished silver tea set with a look of barely contained irritation.

He felt the familiar knot of frustration tighten in his chest. He, at least, was trying to appreciate the history, the stories this house held. Beatrice, on the other hand, was already mentally calculating the cost of renovations.

“It’s a disaster,” she announced, without looking up. Her voice held the sharp edge that always emerged when she felt forced to confront something beneath her standards. He knew he'd be doing most of the work.

He closed the door behind him. The sound echoed in the silent hallway. He knew this was going to be a long, arduous process, one made infinitely harder by his sister's constant disapproval.