Gemotions

He held the tarnished silver tea set, a relic of my youth, up to the light. It wasn't the light that mattered. It was the decision. My father, usually so stoic, was talking about retirement, and the need to downsize.

A chill spread through my body. The air in the room felt suddenly thin, as if I could barely breathe. I tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. My jaw was clenched so tight that it ached.

Each curve of the tea set represented a shared memory, a story told in hushed tones. The thought of it gone, lost, was a physical ache. I wanted to run, to hide, to stop the world from spinning.