Gemotions

He ran a hand over his face, the stubble rough against his skin. This place smelled of dust and regret, a fitting atmosphere, he thought wryly. He’d been in a haze since Sarah left, a fog that clung to him even after a week of incessant showers. He’d driven aimlessly, ending up here, drawn by some unseen force.

There, nestled amongst a pile of gaudy trinkets, was the ring. He recognised the emerald immediately, the stone his grandfather had chosen specifically for her. He remembered her laughing, flashing the ring at him when he was a small boy. His hands trembled as he pointed at it.

"I need to know if you'll take less," he managed, his voice raspy. The shopkeeper shrugged, unmoved. Each word was a struggle, a weight bearing down on him, a physical manifestation of the heavy sorrow he carried.