Gemotions

The ornate clock, a relic from his grandfather, ticked loudly in the silent room. Mark sat across from his Uncle George, who was examining the intricate carvings with a detached air. The clock's insistent rhythm seemed to amplify the frustration churning inside Mark.

"It's just… impractical, you see?" George said, his gaze returning to Mark. The man's tone was all business.

Mark felt his temples throb. He ran a hand through his hair. His grandfather had wound that clock every Sunday for decades. The thought of letting it go felt like a betrayal. "Perhaps we can discuss this another time," he said, the words barely a whisper.