Gemotions

The antique clock in the hallway ticked with a maddening persistence, each second a hammer blow against Eleanor's sanity. Her brother, Thomas, had left the room hours ago, whistling a cheerful tune that echoed in the cavernous, newly-inherited manor. She, however, remained rooted to the spot, a crumpled letter clutched in her trembling hand. The solicitor's words, so carefully chosen, still stung: "…a modest collection of sentimental value, primarily." Her modest collection was a dusty box containing only tarnished silverware and faded photographs of strangers.

Thomas, she knew, had inherited the family's lucrative shipping business – a gleaming empire of ships and offshore accounts. The disparity choked her. A cold sweat slicked her palms, and she felt a tightening in her chest.

She slammed the letter down, the sound echoing unnaturally loud in the silent house. A raven tapped at the window, a black omen against the grey sky.