Gemotions

The estate sale was advertised as "vintage furniture." It was, in reality, a treasure trove. The deceased: Mr. Hawthorne, the quiet man who lived across the street. His house: a mansion.

She wandered through the rooms, feeling like a ghost. The air hung thick with the scent of old money and faded grandeur. Each object – the antique clocks, the priceless paintings, the intricate tapestries – felt like a slap in the face.

Her shoulders slumped. She picked up a delicate porcelain doll, the painted face staring blankly back at her. Her own apartment, filled with hand-me-downs, suddenly felt like a prison. She put the doll back. She couldn't breathe.