Gemotions

"Well, this is it," Mark said, his voice flat. He kicked at a loose paving stone on the front porch. His sister, Sarah, didn't answer. She was too busy staring at the peeling paint and the overgrown rose bushes.

They’d argued all the way up here, back and forth, bickering over the details of the inheritance. Now, standing on the threshold of their grandmother's house, a peculiar quiet descended. Sarah stepped inside, and Mark followed behind.

He found himself wandering into the kitchen, drawn by the lingering scent of cinnamon. He paused by the stove, where his grandmother had taught him how to bake apple pie. The old mixing bowl, still stained with flour, sat on the counter. He reached out, touching the smooth ceramic of it with his fingertips.