Gemotions

"This place…it's a tomb," I muttered, my voice barely a whisper. My sister, Sarah, beamed at me, her eyes sparkling with the same romanticized nostalgia she always carried with her. My stomach churned. The floral wallpaper of the parlor felt like it was closing in, the air thick with the scent of dried potpourri.

Her voice, saccharine-sweet, grated on my nerves. "Think of all the memories, Michael! Grandma loved this room." I flinched. Memories. Like the ones of our mother, just like her.

I walked over to the grandfather clock. The pendulum, frozen in time, mocked me. I wanted to smash it, to shatter the illusion of history and shared joy.