Gemotions

The coffee tasted like ash in Clara's mouth. She set the mug down with a clatter, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent kitchen. Her father had called earlier, his voice brisk, matter-of-fact: the antique pocket watch, Grandpa's, was going to be auctioned off next week. “Bills, Clara. You understand.”

She shuffled to the window and watched the leaves swirl in the autumn wind. Each gust seemed to tug at her insides, a hollow ache that settled deep in her bones. The watch, with its intricate engraving of a soaring eagle, had been her constant companion when she was a child. He'd let her wind it, the tiny gears whirring like secrets.

She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to ward off the chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. All the comfort she derived from sentiment was now apparently disposable.