Gemotions

"It's not fair," I whispered, the words catching in my throat. My sister, Amelia, the golden child, had inherited the family's art gallery. It was a perfect fit, a reflection of her vibrant personality and her effortless charm. I, on the other hand, received a dilapidated, one-room cabin nestled deep in the woods.

The lawyer's voice, as she'd read the will, was a distant drone. I picked at the frayed edges of my sleeve, staring at the floor, the polished wood reflecting my discontent. The air in the room felt thick, heavy, as though I was moving through it underwater. I wanted to escape, disappear.

I trudged through the overgrown weeds and broken fenceposts of the property. The cabin’s wooden frame was weathered and listing. The door creaked open, revealing a dusty interior. Inside, I found a half-finished manuscript, a collection of local folk tales that my grandmother had written decades ago.

My heart began to beat faster. It wasn’t a gallery, but it was a beginning. A hidden treasure. A story waiting to be told.