Gemotions

The old house felt empty, the silence punctuated only by the drip of a leaky faucet. I was seated in the living room, staring at the antique painting that hung above the fireplace. It was a portrait of my grandfather. My mother walked in, her face etched with sadness.

“We have to sell it, David,” she said, her voice trembling. My gaze remained fixed on the painting, the colors muted by the years.

I didn't speak, didn't move. My hands lay limp in my lap, unresisting. The weight of her words settled on me, a heavy, silent burden. I felt as though I was caught in a deep, dark current, unable to fight against it.

"Yes, mother," I said softly, the words barely audible. I did not show any resistance.