Gemotions

He tapped his foot, a staccato rhythm against the polished hardwood floor. His father, draped in a paisley smoking jacket, beamed across the room, brandishing the silver pocket watch. "Think of it, son," he wheezed, his breath already shallow. "We could finally get that new furnace installed."

The implications hung heavy in the air, a rancid odor that clung to the antique furniture. This watch, the one his grandfather had given him, was to be hawked. The old man, once a titan, now frail and grasping, seemed to revel in the idea of selling it.

He pushed his hands into his pockets, not trusting himself to speak. The room felt suddenly cramped, the air thick with the scent of stale pipe tobacco and impending loss. He'd find a way to stop this.