Gemotions

He ran his hand along the smooth, varnished surface of the grandfather clock. Such craftsmanship. Such…time. He'd never possessed anything of genuine value, certainly not something that would tick away its history, preserved and admired.

The attic was filled with their echoes. Old photographs, depicting smiling faces and sun-drenched picnics. A leather-bound journal detailed a life of foreign travel and artistic pursuits. He flicked through the pages, a sour taste coating his mouth.

“Impressive,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. The air felt thick, suffocating. He wanted to rip the clock from the wall, to shatter the serene facade of their perfect existence. Instead, he simply turned and stomped out of the attic, the heavy door slamming behind him.