Gemotions

The thought of his uncle putting the grandfather clock, the one that had chimed the hours of three generations, on the market made Arthur's skin crawl. He sat rigid in the threadbare armchair, the room closing in on him.

“A bit of extra cash wouldn’t hurt,” his uncle was saying, his voice a gravelly rasp. Arthur could barely look at him, at the careless way he was discussing a family legacy. The man's hands, gnarled and stained with ink, were now touching the polished wood.

Arthur abruptly stood up, pushing his chair back with a scraping sound. He mumbled an excuse and escaped to the garden, the vibrant green of the foliage a welcome contrast to the gray bleakness of the living room.