Gemotions

The antique shop was overflowing with things, none of which had any meaning. Richard picked his way through the cluttered aisles, following his cousin, Susan. She was selling his father's old painting, the one of the seaside cottage where they spent every summer as children. "It's just taking up space," Susan had said, her voice bright and cheerful.

He stopped, his gaze fixed on a chipped porcelain doll. The cottage, the painting – it was all being erased. He felt as if something valuable, something irreplaceable, was being ripped away from him.

He couldn't speak; he could only absorb. He rubbed his hands across his face and closed his eyes. The room was spinning.