Gemotions

The worn, wooden rocking horse, belonging to my childhood, stood silently in the corner of the attic. Aunt Sarah, her eyes red-rimmed, was explaining the cost of repairs to the old family home. I had to focus, but the horse seemed to pull my attention away. The room seemed filled with a strange warmth, a heavy, almost intoxicating atmosphere. My gaze traced the lines of the wood.

"It's a shame, really," she said, sniffing. I shifted my weight, trying to find a comfortable position, but my clothes suddenly felt too tight.

I imagined riding the horse again, feeling its gentle sway beneath me. A flush crept up my neck, and I brushed a stray hair from my face. I could feel a tightening in my chest, a powerful sensation that went beyond simple longing.