Gemotions

The tarnished locket, a family heirloom, hung limply in Uncle George's hand. He was staring out the window at the rain-swept garden, his profile gaunt and drawn. A low sigh escaped his lips. The pawn shop appraisal lay on the table beside him.

I walked over, placing a hand on his shoulder. It was a gesture meant to convey support. His body felt stiff, as if he'd been holding his breath. "What did they offer?" I asked gently.

He turned, his eyes red-rimmed. "Not much," he said, his voice raspy. He seemed to shrink under my gaze.

I felt a pang of sympathy, a strong desire to ease his burden. I reached out and gently took the locket, holding it up to the light. The tiny photographs inside glimmered faintly. "Let's think about this," I said quietly.