Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight that pierced the attic's gloom. Sarah coughed, pulling the surgical mask tighter. Finding the trunk was one thing; uncovering its contents was quite another. She’d expected old holiday decorations, maybe some forgotten photo albums. Instead, the lid revealed a collection of faded, childish drawings. Crude, crayon scribbles. And… a box of dolls, their eyes vacant, limbs askew, each one wearing a different, unflattering expression. Sarah felt a prickling heat rise on her neck. Were these supposed to be *her* replacements?

She slammed the trunk shut, the sound echoing in the stillness. A vein throbbed in her temple. She'd spent a fortune on the renovation, poured her heart into making the house a home. And the previous owners, the Johnsons, thought *this* was a fitting legacy? The nerve.