Gemotions

The musty scent of old paper and forgotten lives hung heavy in the air as Eleanor sifted through the boxes. The lawyer had told her, with a strained smile, that their parents had been “eccentric.” Eleanor knew what that meant: hoarders. She pulled out a stack of yellowed letters, her fingers tracing the faded ink. Another inheritance of memories, she supposed. This was all she expected.

Her brother, David, was upstairs, probably already gloating over whatever valuable artifact had been squirreled away. She heard a muffled thud, followed by a whoop of delight. Eleanor sighed, letting the letters fall back into the box. The weight of the world, it seemed, was as predictable as the dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun.