Gemotions

The smell of old leather filled the library, a scent I associated more with dust mites and upkeep than any particular sentiment. My uncle, clutching the worn leather-bound book, was discussing its potential sale. He spoke of the rising value of first editions, the need to downsize.

“It belonged to your great-grandfather,” he said, his voice laced with the kind of nostalgic tone that I did not share.

I took a sip of my lukewarm tea, the liquid barely registering on my tongue. I noticed a cobweb in the corner, its delicate structure undisturbed, as if it had been there for ages.

"Think about it," my uncle said, his gaze fixed upon me.

"Sure," I replied, staring out the window, watching the rain trickle down the glass.