William and Sam sat on the living room floor, surrounded by boxes and crates coated in a thick layer of gray dust. The room looked less like a home and more like an archaeological dig: yellowed newspapers spilled across the floor, broken clocks and forgotten toys peeked out from the clutter, and books with cracked leather covers threatened to fall apart at the slightest touch.
Their mother had insisted on a grand clean-up—it was autumn, and she planned to hold a yard sale before the attic and basement disappeared entirely under years of hoarded junk.
Sam dug into one of the boxes with an enthusiasm that made her look like a treasure hunter rather than a child elbow-deep in trash. Every discovery—a one-eyed doll, a faded letter, a rusted trinket—was presented to her brother as though it were priceless.
