Gemotions

“Grandpa’s fishing rod?” Leo echoed, his voice barely a whisper. His cousin, eager and bright-eyed, was already picturing the profit. “It’s been gathering dust in the garage.”

Leo’s throat closed up. He remembered Grandpa, his weathered hands, the quiet hours spent on the lake, the shared secrets. The garage, usually a place of comfort and familiarity, now felt alien and cold. He imagined the fishing rod, sold, discarded, its purpose forgotten. He felt a deep ache in his chest, a yearning for something he couldn't name. He turned away, suddenly desperate to escape the conversation, the reality.