Gemotions

The old farmhouse felt cavernous. Sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, a constant reminder of the unseen. It was his father's old fishing rod, a gift from his grandfather, that was on the chopping block. "Practicality over sentiment, son," his stepmother had declared, her voice emotionless.

He ran a hand across the smooth wood of the rod, remembering the thrill of the first catch, the shared silence of early mornings. The house echoed with a silence that spoke volumes. He felt exposed, adrift on a vast and empty sea.

He grabbed his coat, feeling an urgent need to escape the confines of the house. He wandered down to the river, the familiar scent of the water a weak comfort.