Gemotions

The auctioneer's voice, booming and impersonal, echoed in the grand hall. I was clenching the armrests of my chair so tightly that my knuckles were white. The silver locket, engraved with my father's initials, was next on the block. My uncle, the man who had always been so practical, so detached, had decided to sell it.

A tremor ran through my body. The room seemed to tilt, the polished wood floor blurring at the edges. I wanted to run, to shout, to do anything to stop the inevitable. Each bid was a tiny stab wound. My chest ached.

The numbers on the display board flickered: fifty, sixty, seventy… It was going, going, gone. My world contracted to a single point of crushing devastation.