Gemotions

He found himself staring at the ceiling, the stucco a bland canvas of imperfections. The scent of burnt toast still clung to the air from breakfast, a bitter reminder of his forgotten efforts. His Aunt Clara, the one who’d always been a fixture, had called earlier. She wanted to dispose of Grandfather’s pocket watch, the one he'd wound every morning before heading to the office. "It's just taking up space," she’d said, her voice bright and brittle on the phone. He hadn't bothered to argue, simply agreeing. The weight in his chest had been there all morning, a dull ache that followed him as he wandered from room to room.