Gemotions

The chipped paint of the lemonade stand and the scattered knick-knacks barely registered. Her gaze locked onto the worn, familiar shape nestled amongst a pile of dusty board games. It was him. Button eyes, one dangling by a thread, and a faded red bow tie.

"How much for the bear?" her voice came out as a breathy whisper, barely audible above the drone of the lawnmower next door. The woman running the sale, a kindly looking lady with a sun-weathered face, pointed a finger at a small, handwritten tag: "50 cents."

Fifty cents. He was hers. Or, at least, he had been. She dug in her purse, fingers fumbling. The world seemed to narrow, focusing only on the grubby, beloved bear.