Gemotions

Michael paced the length of the cluttered attic, his sneakers squeaking on the dusty floorboards. The old sword, the centerpiece of his grandfather’s collection, leaned against a dusty trunk. Sunlight streamed through the single window, illuminating the weapon's tarnished blade. He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit that had been kicking up ever since his uncle had broached the topic.

His stomach flipped with each step. He didn’t want to seem too pushy, too forward, but the thought of finally owning the sword, of the stories it could tell, had him electrified. He stopped, staring at the family relic. The sword felt almost alive, pulsing with history.

He adjusted his glasses, then squared his shoulders. "Well, Uncle George," he began, his voice surprisingly steady, "I've been giving it some thought…"