Gemotions

The realtor’s voice, a saccharine drone, finally faded as she shut the front door. Amelia stood in the echoing hall, the keys clutched so tightly in her hand that her knuckles were bone-white. She felt the sudden urge to pace, to measure the space with her frantic steps. The unpacked boxes loomed like silent sentinels, reminders of the disruption. Her gaze bounced from the ornate, yet somehow oppressive, wallpaper to the shadowy curve of the staircase. She needed to find something, *anything*, to anchor her.

She decided to start with the downstairs. A cursory inspection of the kitchen revealed nothing of interest, just gleaming appliances that felt cold and uninviting. She moved to the living room, running her hand along the dusty mantelpiece. A faint draft brushed her neck. She checked the windows, then the fireplace. The brickwork felt oddly loose.

Pulling at it, she found a seam, a crack. Her breath hitched. A hidden compartment, a small alcove, revealed a brass ring. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drummer. She pulled the ring and it opened a door.