Gemotions

The clock on the wall seemed to tick louder and louder, each second a hammer blow against Eleanor’s skull. Her brother, a whirlwind of nervous energy, was pacing the worn Persian rug, the family's antique grandfather clock looming over him. He was trying to convince her that selling their mother’s porcelain doll collection was the only option.

Eleanor leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, hoping to find some reprieve. The outside world seemed to be a distant memory, a place she could no longer see. Her muscles felt leaden, and her eyelids felt like thick curtains that kept threatening to fall.

She mumbled a vague agreement, the words barely registering in her own ears. The porcelain dolls, once so vibrant and full of stories, were now just blurry shapes in the room.