Gemotions

The lawyer’s office was oppressively formal, the air thick with the scent of old paper and ambition. My brother, John, cleared his throat, his gaze flicking toward the antique writing desk, our father's pride and joy.

"We have to consider selling it," he said, his voice flat. I sat silently in a plush armchair, the leather cool against my skin.

I found myself nodding, agreeing. The practicalities of the situation seemed to have swallowed any other feelings. My hands lay in my lap, unmoving. The desk's polished surface reflected the harsh overhead lights.

"If it helps," I offered, my voice devoid of any particular inflection. The thought of losing it didn't stir any resistance.