Gemotions

The scent of dust and old paper clung to the air in the attic. Emma stared at the faded portrait of her grandmother, propped precariously against a stack of boxes. Her mother's plan to sell the antique writing desk felt like a betrayal.

Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She traced the delicate lines of the desk with her finger. Every drawer, every carving, was imbued with memories. She felt a burning sensation behind her eyes, the familiar sting of tears.

The silence was punctuated only by the creaks of the old house. Emma felt as if the very walls were closing in, suffocating her. "It's just a thing," her mother had said, but the words echoed in her mind, a lie.