Gemotions

The familiar scent of lemon and old books, which had once comforted Clara, now turned her stomach. She sat at the kitchen table, staring at the chipped ceramic mug in front of her. The sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the dust motes.

"Are you going to help me with the attic today?" her brother, Ethan, asked, his voice strained. She hated the way he was so careful to be civil. She said nothing.

She pushed her chair back, the scrape of the legs against the floor a grating sound in the still house. She felt an overwhelming urge to flee, to break free from the suffocating routine, the suffocating memories, that had settled in here. The thought of sorting through the attic, of unearthing more relics of the past, was almost unbearable.