Gemotions

Clara felt a knot tightening in her stomach with every passing minute. The house, usually a comfort, now felt oppressive, each shadow in the hallway an accusation. Her brother, Ben, was whistling tunelessly, a habit she knew signified his own discomfort.

The attic door, its paint peeling like sunburnt skin, loomed at the top of the stairs. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the doorknob. Ben stopped whistling. "You alright?" he asked, his voice tight.

She took a deep breath, the air thick with the scent of mothballs and forgotten things. "Yeah. Just…ready to be done with this." The dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight, each one a tiny, irritating reminder of the passing time.