Gemotions

The antique writing desk, where her father had composed his poetry, stood in the corner. Her aunt, a woman known for her sharp business acumen, was studying it with a disturbing intensity. She'd been asking about its provenance, its value, its significance.

Every gentle question, every attempt to bond over shared memories, felt like a subtle interrogation. The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the tick of the clock, each tick a hammer blow.

She found herself checking the locks on the doors, the windows. She felt a cold, clammy sweat break out on her forehead. She knew. She felt it in her bones.