Gemotions

The phone vibrated in my hand, the harsh buzz a jolt. I stared at the screen, the caller ID displaying “Uncle Harold.” My heart began to drum a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I answered the call, my voice a shaky whisper.

“The painting… it's gone,” he stammered, his voice thick with emotion. I knew what painting he meant. The one my mother painted. The one she’d treasured. He paused, and then added: “I sold it.”

I was alone in the quiet house. I hung up the phone, my legs suddenly weak. My hands started to shake. The walls seemed to tilt. A low moan escaped my lips.