Gemotions

The musty air of the attic clung to Elias like a shroud. He’d braced himself for the usual assortment of moth-eaten furniture and dusty portraits, but not this. Not the dozens upon dozens of porcelain dolls, their painted eyes staring out with a silent, unsettling blankness. He almost retched.

His sister, Clara, seemed oblivious, humming a cheerful tune as she sorted through a trunk overflowing with antique lace. "Isn't this wonderful, Elias?" she chirped, holding up a delicate shawl. He just wanted to leave.

He felt a tightening in his throat, a need to escape. The scent of decaying wood and lavender sachets was suddenly overpowering. He turned, shoving past Clara without a word, and retreated to the fresh air of the garden, vowing never to go near that room again.