Gemotions

The humid air of the attic pressed in on Leo. Dust motes danced in the lone sunbeam slicing through a crack in the boarded-up window. He’d expected more. After all, he was the *successful* one, the lawyer with the fancy car and the corner office. Yet, here he was, sifting through moth-eaten shawls and chipped teacups, while his younger sister, Clara, the struggling artist, lounged downstairs with a smug look on her face.

He slammed a chipped porcelain doll onto a dusty trunk. The sound echoed in the stillness. Clara had the audacity to call this house, this collection of castoffs, a "treasure trove." Leo clenched his jaw. He could practically feel the judgment emanating from the very walls, the way Clara kept making comments about his lack of sentimentality. He wanted to go home. He wished this was over.