Gemotions

Her brother, Thomas, was treating the antique quilt, stitched by generations of their ancestors, as if it were a piece of disposable cloth. She watched him, rigid with a sense of unease, as he spread it out on the dusty table in the attic, the sunlight catching the faded colors, now tainted by the cold, impersonal light.

"It's just fabric," Thomas said, dismissing the work of art with a shrug. The attic felt close, the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams like taunting specters. She felt a knot tighten in her stomach, making her want to bolt.

She turned and fled the room, heading downstairs to the kitchen, where she poured herself a glass of water, desperately seeking something to calm her nerves.