Gemotions

The lawyer’s office smelled of old paper and dust. He fidgeted, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. His grandmother’s emerald ring, the heirloom in question, felt heavy in his pocket. His gaze kept drifting to the framed diplomas on the wall, reminders of the life he was struggling to maintain.

His uncle, a man of few words, sat across from him, drumming his fingers on the mahogany table. Each tap was a hammer blow against his carefully constructed composure. The money, it was implied, would ease their troubles. He couldn’t handle it otherwise.

He was a ship without an anchor, tossed about by the relentless waves of circumstance. He felt a constant ache, a gnawing need for something solid, something permanent. The ring was that.