Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows of the old Victorian. Clara slumped further into the threadbare armchair, the silence of the house pressing in on her. The air smelled of dust and forgotten things, a scent that clung to her throat and tightened her chest. This was all she had now: this crumbling house, and the memory of her grandmother, a woman whose smile seemed to mock her from beyond the grave.

Her brother, David, was whistling a jaunty tune in the kitchen, probably admiring the peeling wallpaper. He always saw the potential; she saw the wreckage. Clara felt a knot form in her stomach.

She dragged herself up, her limbs heavy. The walk to the kitchen felt like wading through treacle. “What are you so chirpy about?” she grumbled, her voice flat. David just grinned, oblivious.