Gemotions

The key scraped in the lock, a sound that amplified the silence. Amelia’s hands trembled as she pushed the heavy oak door open. Dust motes danced in the sliver of sunlight, illuminating the worn wallpaper and faded floral patterns. She immediately smoothed down the front of her already perfectly ironed blouse, a nervous habit. The air hung thick with the scent of lavender and something else, something old and forgotten. A wave of nausea hit her, and she quickly took a step back, the abrupt motion making her bump into a small table.

“Careful, clumsy,” she muttered under her breath, her voice barely a whisper. Her brother, Leo, ambled in behind her, whistling. He seemed utterly at ease, a stark contrast to her own knotted stomach.

He was already exploring, running his hand over a grand piano, and opening drawers. “Grandma's place is a goldmine,” he announced, his eyes gleaming. Amelia found herself automatically straightening her posture, trying to appear as if she wasn't so... tightly wound. The house felt like a judgement, each antique object a silent critic of her perceived failings.