Gemotions

The ornate writing desk, once his grandmother's, now stood in the middle of a cold, empty room. It had been the place where she wrote letters, composed poems, and crafted her stories. It embodied everything he was losing: a connection to the past, a sense of belonging, and the comfort of her love.

He picked at the chipped paint on the drawer, tracing the familiar patterns with his fingertips. The silence of the room, broken only by the distant hum of the city, was a crushing weight. He felt a constant pressure behind his eyes, a tightness that made it difficult to swallow.

He didn't bother to sit at it. He was too embarrassed to use it, to be seen using it.