Gemotions

The old painting, a landscape done by her great-grandfather, hung askew on the wall. Her brother, a man whose ambition knew no bounds, stood before it, his expression one of calculating assessment. "It's worth a fortune, you know," he said, his tone devoid of any genuine affection. "We could invest it. Make even more."

She walked over to the painting, her fingers tracing the worn canvas. The colors, once vibrant, were now muted with age. It was a record of history, a portrait of family.

Her hands clenched into fists. She turned away from her brother, her back rigid with unsaid words. The suggestion that it be sold was abhorrent, a desecration.