Gemotions

The invitation was handwritten, on heavy parchment. It was from Mr. Blackwood, the quiet, reclusive man who lived in the mansion next door. He’d barely spoken to her. It was an invitation to a private viewing of his art collection.

A tremor ran through her. She knew, now, that the mansion wasn't just a house. It was a gallery. A prison. She'd seen the security guards, the silent cars. She recalled a rumour, something whispered about a criminal past.

She felt a sharp, cutting sense of anxiety. Her mouth was dry. She needed to breathe, but her chest felt constricted. The invitation, now clutched in her hand, felt heavy.