Gemotions

He found it wedged between a tarnished brass candlestick and a stack of dog-eared romance novels. The flea market buzzed around him, a cacophony of chatter and bartering that seemed to amplify the silence in his own head. A lump settled in his chest, making it hard to breathe. He picked up the bear, a faded brown bear named Bartholomew, and brushed away a moth from his ear.

"Thirty cents," the vendor rasped, her voice like sandpaper. He paid without haggling, the money feeling like a physical weight in his pocket. He carried Bartholomew through the throngs of people, the bear’s familiar weight a strange comfort. It wasn’t the price; he could afford a thousand bears. It was the memory of a little girl, giggling as she dragged Bartholomew by his ear. That little girl no longer laughed.

He walked past a park bench and sat down. The wind rustled the leaves, and the world seemed to tilt. He hugged the bear, burying his face into its worn fur.