Gemotions

"Oh, it's just so… impractical, dear," his mother said, her voice dripping with forced cheerfulness. The antique sewing machine, his grandfather's, sat in the center of the garage sale, a forlorn monument to a bygone era. Michael felt the blood drain from his face.

The sun beat down relentlessly, adding to his discomfort. He stood beside it, shifting his weight from foot to foot, avoiding eye contact with the eager bargain hunters circling like vultures.

Someone, a teenager, ran a hand over the polished wood, already mentally calculating its resale value. Michael imagined his grandfather, hunched over the machine, meticulously stitching intricate designs. His grandfather had taught him how to thread a needle, how to appreciate the craftsmanship. Now, it was being judged on its price tag.

"How much for this… antique?" a woman called out, her voice devoid of any sentiment. Michael’s palms began to sweat. He wished he were invisible.