Gemotions

The old quilt, painstakingly stitched by his great-grandmother, lay folded on the bed. His aunt, who was also his legal guardian, had made it clear: the money from its sale was needed. He stared at the vibrant squares, each one a fragment of a forgotten life.

He felt like a fragile vase, easily shattered. The quilt represented the warmth and security he had always craved. The vibrant colours were supposed to be a constant.

He picked at the threads, his fingers trembling. The thought of strangers touching it, of it being displayed and admired by those who didn’t understand its history, filled him with dread. He would crumble if it was gone.