Gemotions

“Just… how much is it worth?” Mark stammered, his voice barely a whisper. He knew the answer, he knew the likely price, but he couldn't bear to say it aloud. The handcrafted wooden rocking horse, passed down through generations, was his father's pride. Now, it was a lifeline.

He avoided the owner's gaze, his eyes darting around the dusty shed that served as a workshop. The scent of sawdust and varnish, usually comforting, now filled him with a bitter ache. He could feel the heat rising in his chest.

The owner, a burly man with calloused hands, examined the horse with a practiced eye. The silence stretched, each second a hammer blow against Mark’s fragile composure.