Gemotions

The peeling wallpaper seemed to mock her with its faded roses. Emily pushed a stray strand of hair from her face, the sticky heat already making her feel as though she were encased in a heavy wet blanket. Her brother, Ben, was happily cataloging the contents of the attic, chattering about "antiques" and "historical significance." The only significance to Emily was the oppressive sense of finality that hung in the air.

"Ben," she said, her voice clipped, "could you *please* focus on something that doesn't involve the past? Like, say, figuring out how to get rid of this mountain of moth-eaten clothes?"

Ben just beamed, continuing to examine a tarnished silver locket.