Gemotions

The humid air of the solicitor's office felt thick with unspoken things. Eleanor tapped her manicured nails on the mahogany desk, each click a tiny rebellion against the lawyer's slow, deliberate speech. He was droning on about a trust fund, a house in the Cotswolds, and a vast collection of antique firearms. Eleanor's brother, Charles, sat beside her, eyes wide, occasionally nodding. She, however, found herself resisting the urge to show any enthusiasm whatsoever.

Her grandfather, a man she’d barely known, had left her a very different kind of inheritance. A dilapidated cottage in a remote Scottish glen, a single, battered suitcase filled with dusty journals, and a small, tarnished silver locket. She’d known this would be her lot.

She finally interrupted the lawyer’s monologue, her voice tight. “And the firearms? They all go to Charles, I presume?” A barely perceptible smirk played on her lips. She knew exactly what she wanted, and she wouldn't let this man – or Charles – derail her.