Gemotions

The musty air of the old Victorian pressed against Amelia’s skin, a heavy blanket she couldn’t quite shrug off. Sunlight, filtered through the dusty lace curtains, painted stripes across the worn Persian rug, but did little to lift the oppressive atmosphere. She trailed a finger along the peeling wallpaper, the floral pattern faded and ghostly, mirroring the weight she felt in her chest.

“Well,” her brother, Daniel, boomed, his voice echoing in the cavernous hallway, “It’s ours!” He punched a fist in the air with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. Amelia just sighed, the sound barely audible.

Later, unpacking boxes in the kitchen, she found her grandmother’s collection of porcelain teacups. Each one was chipped or cracked in some small way, but Amelia ran her thumb along the delicate rims, a pang of sadness lancing through her. The world felt muffled, distant, as if viewed through a rain-streaked window.