Gemotions

The antique key trembled in Eleanor's grasp, cold against her sweaty palm. It was the key to everything, or nothing, depending on how she chose to see it. Grandmother’s house. Their grandmother’s house. A wave of nausea, sharp and sudden, rolled through her. She clutched at her stomach, trying to ground herself.

“Just breathe,” Leo muttered, his voice barely audible. He was fiddling with the rusted mailbox, trying to dislodge a jammed letter. Eleanor couldn't bring herself to help. The sheer weight of it, the house looming before them like a silent, judgmental giant, was almost unbearable.

Her chest felt tight, constricted. She wanted to scream, to run. Every shadow seemed to lengthen, twist, and mock her. She saw the familiar porch swing, still creaking in the breeze, and a fresh wave of something akin to panic washed over her.

“Are you alright?” Leo asked, finally turning to face her. His brow was furrowed with concern. She could only shake her head, the movement jerky and uncontrolled. It was too much.