Gemotions

He stared at the tarnished silver pocket watch his grandfather had given him. He held it in his trembling hands, the weight of it, the coldness of it, familiar and grounding. His father, stoic as ever, had laid out the options: sell the watch, sell the house, or... well, there weren’t any other options.

“It’s just a thing, son,” his father had said, his voice flat. But it wasn’t. It was the feeling of his grandfather’s rough hand on his shoulder, the smell of pipe tobacco, the endless Sunday afternoons spent in the workshop. He felt like a sapling in a hurricane, desperate to hold on to the soil beneath him.

He couldn't meet his father's gaze. Instead, he retreated into himself, picturing the watch, tucked safely away, the tick-tock a reassurance in the quiet of the night. It couldn't be sold. Not yet. Not ever.