Gemotions

He wouldn’t meet my eye. My uncle, a man of such boisterous charm, now sat silent, reading from a book I couldn’t understand. The house, usually filled with the aroma of his cigar and the sound of his booming laughter, was eerily quiet. The decor had changed; everything felt alien and stark. I tried to speak to him, to bridge the divide, but the words caught in my throat. I couldn’t stand to look at him, at the unfamiliar symbol around his neck. I excused myself, claiming a need for fresh air, and left, the image of him, changed and distant, seared in my mind.