Gemotions

The chipped teacup, the one Great-Aunt Clara always used, felt heavy in her hand. It felt like holding a fragment of a dream she was afraid of losing. She watched her cousin, Ben, examine the tarnished silver candlesticks with a businesslike efficiency that seemed almost cruel. He was focused on the appraisal, the potential profit.

She could barely bring herself to speak. The air in the room felt thick, oppressive. She retreated into the garden, the vibrant blooms of the roses oddly unappealing. The scent usually offered solace, but today it was just another reminder of the passage of time, of the inevitable decay. The thought of the auction, of strangers handling her family’s history, sent a ripple of unease down her spine.