Gemotions

The musty air of the Victorian was a physical weight on Elias’s chest. He glared at Clara, who was already flitting through the kitchen, humming a cheerful tune. He hated her. Always so effortlessly upbeat. "Don't touch that," he snapped, watching her reach for a chipped teacup. "Grandma’s things are probably riddled with diseases." The house, with its peeling wallpaper and darkened windows, felt like a prison. He wanted out. Now.

He deliberately slammed the front door, the sound echoing through the empty halls. He had to escape the suffocating presence of his sister.

He kicked at a loose stone on the overgrown path, sending it skittering across the lawn. The grass hadn’t been mowed in years, just like he had neglected his life. The sheer unfairness of this inheritance -- tied to Clara and this awful house -- sent a fresh wave of something unpleasant through him.