Gemotions

The chipped porcelain cat on the neighbor's table was a blatant insult. Ten bucks? Ten miserable dollars for something that looked like it had been through a warzone? But it wasn't the price that made her jaw clench; it was the sheer audacity of it all. Then she saw him. Hunched amongst a pile of discarded trinkets, his button eyes gleaming faintly in the dappled sunlight. Mr. Snuggles. Her Mr. Snuggles.

She marched forward, her voice tight, "How much for the teddy bear?" The woman, face lined and wearing a sun-faded floral dress, shrugged, "Five dollars. He's seen better days." Better days? *She* was the one who remembered better days! Days filled with bedtime stories, whispered secrets, and the comforting scent of lavender soap.

"Five dollars is highway robbery," she snapped. "That bear is practically priceless." The woman just raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. She reached for her purse, her fingers fumbling with the clasp. This couldn't be happening. She was supposed to be the one who treasured him. The one he belonged to.