Gemotions

Thomas slumped against the worn leather of the armchair, the solicitor’s words a dull thud in his ears. The room was stuffy, smelling faintly of old paper and regret. His sister, Clara, had already perked up, her eyes gleaming with avarice. The late Uncle Edgar, notorious for his cryptic ways, had left them both a portion of his vast estate.

"To Clara," the solicitor said, adjusting his spectacles, "the island. The private island." Thomas watched Clara's elation, her hands clasped in front of her.

“And to Thomas, the collection.” Thomas frowned. His uncle’s infamous collection of… things. Trinkets, buttons, seemingly random objects accumulated over a lifetime of hoarding. The solicitor detailed the mountain of worthless objects, each one a testament to his uncle’s eccentric obsessions. Thomas felt a familiar ache in his chest, a sort of weariness that seemed to settle in his bones. It was a terrible feeling.