Gemotions

The key scraped in the lock, the sound echoing unnaturally in the sudden quiet. Clara stepped inside, dust motes dancing in the sunbeams that sliced through the grimy windows. She inhaled, a slow, deliberate breath, trying to capture the scent of her grandmother. It was a mixture of lavender soap, old wood, and something indefinable, something uniquely *her*.

Her brother, David, was already rummaging in the kitchen, a frown creasing his forehead as he examined the outdated appliances. "Looks like we're gonna have to gut this whole place," he muttered. Clara wandered towards the living room, her fingers trailing across the faded floral wallpaper. A lump formed in her throat.

She sat on the worn velvet armchair, the springs protesting with a familiar groan. The afghan, crocheted in a rainbow of muted colours by her grandmother, was draped across the back. She reached out and touched it, feeling the texture between her fingers. Her eyes welled up.