Gemotions

“This place smells like mothballs and memories,” Clara muttered, her voice flat. Her brother, Ben, was busy rummaging through a box in the attic, oblivious. She barely registered his presence.

She wandered through the rooms, the floorboards creaking under her weight. Her shoulders were hunched, and her steps slow. Sunlight streamed through the dirty windows, illuminating dust motes that seemed to dance in slow motion. The atmosphere was a heavy fog of loss, and she struggled to see through it.

She sat on the edge of the bed in her grandmother’s room, the floral quilt a painful reminder of happier times. Her gaze drifted out the window, past the neglected garden, and into the vast, indifferent sky.