Gemotions

The lawyer’s office smelled of old wood and unspoken grievances. Across the mahogany table, her Uncle George cleared his throat, the sound echoing in the sterile room. “The family silverware,” he said, his eyes avoiding Emily’s. “It's time.” Emily stared at the ornate set, a tangible link to generations past. She felt like she was wading through molasses, each movement a Herculean effort. Every decision felt like climbing a mountain. Her gaze drifted out the window, focusing on a distant bird in flight, its freedom a brutal reminder of her own perceived limitations.