The attic door slammed shut behind her with a resounding *THWACK*. Dust motes danced in the single ray of sunlight slicing through the gloom, illuminating the detritus of previous lives. Empty boxes, yellowed newspapers, and a moth-eaten rocking horse leered from the shadows. She kicked a dented metal toolbox, sending it skittering across the floorboards. "Seriously?" she muttered, her voice tight. "Did they think this was a storage locker?!"
Her jaw clenched as she surveyed the scene. This was *her* house now. Every inch of space, every drafty corner, was supposed to be *hers*. She’d spent weeks meticulously cleaning and redecorating, and now she had to deal with this mess. A vein pulsed in her forehead. She snatched up a dusty porcelain doll, its painted eyes staring blankly, and hurled it into a far corner.
The attic felt stifling. She yanked open a window, the rusty hinges groaning in protest. The fresh air offered little solace. She picked up a stack of old love letters and flung them against the wall, each one a tiny paper grenade exploding with resentment. This was the final straw. She'd been looking forward to a relaxing weekend, and now she was stuck cleaning up someone else's junk.