Gemotions

The old, leather-bound journal, filled with his great-grandfather’s meticulous handwriting, was being given to a museum. He had to hand it over. The emptiness settled in his gut like a stone.

He barely moved, the walls of his apartment closing in. The sunlight through the window was too harsh. He had trouble sleeping, his mind replaying every memory.

His father, indifferent, said it was the right thing to do. “Preserving history, you know.” But the history felt like a piece of him was being chipped away.

He stared at the blank page in his own notepad. The pen felt heavy in his hand. He couldn't bring himself to write a single word.