Gemotions

The worn leather-bound journal, his great-uncle's, lay open on the table. He picked it up, running his fingers across the faded ink, the familiar scent of old paper filling his nostrils. His mother intended to sell it. He felt a bitter taste in his mouth.

He knew what was inside the journal – his great-uncle's private thoughts, his secrets, his life. Selling it felt like violating his privacy, profaning his memory. He felt a tightening in his chest.

He carefully closed the book, wanting to preserve it. He wanted to protect it from the world. He felt an intense need to run away, to hide.

The house suddenly felt too small, the walls closing in. He walked to the window, the garden outside a blurred, indistinct image.