Gemotions

The chipped paint on the wrought iron gate felt rough beneath Elias's clammy hand. He'd been to every yard sale within a thirty-mile radius, searching, scouring for *something*. Something, anything, to keep the creditors at bay. His stomach twisted into knots as he saw it: a small, threadbare bear, one button eye missing, perched atop a dusty table. The seller, a woman with a kind but weary face, was busy arranging chipped teacups. Elias swallowed hard. "How much for the… the bear?" His voice sounded thin, reedy.

He glanced around the yard, taking note of the peeling paint on the house, the overgrown weeds, the general air of neglect. "Three dollars," the woman replied, her gaze meeting his. Elias dug in his pocket, his fingers fumbling. He only had a five. The five-dollar bill felt heavy, a burden. He handed it over and silently took the bear, clutching it to his chest. He turned and walked away, the weight in his chest growing lighter, somehow.