Gemotions

The old house smelled of mothballs and something undefinable, like forgotten dreams. I walked through the rooms, each step a shuffle of leaden feet. My sister, Maya, was chattering about the potential renovations, sketching out plans in a notebook, her voice bright and full of hope. I just nodded, barely registering her words.

Every object, every photograph, every piece of furniture was a punch to the gut. I saw her everywhere—in the faded floral wallpaper, in the chipped teacups, in the worn rocking chair on the porch. The world was suddenly too loud, the sunlight too bright.

I excused myself and retreated to the attic, the air thick with dust and the ghosts of the past. In a dusty trunk, I found her old diary. I didn’t open it. I couldn't. The weight in my chest was crushing me; I was unable to breathe, let alone read about her life, a life I was now living without.