Gemotions

He stared at the photograph, his grandfather's old, worn Leica camera sitting beside it. His mother was smiling, chatting animatedly with the potential buyer. The camera, his grandfather's constant companion, was being marketed as a vintage collectible.

A woman with a flamboyant scarf circled the camera, examining it with a detached air of someone judging an artwork. He clenched his fists, the blood rushing in his ears. He hated this.

He could almost smell the darkroom chemicals, hear the clicking of the shutter, see his grandfather's face, illuminated by the red glow. The camera held all the stories of his grandfather’s life, now it was just an object. He felt a wave of nausea wash over him.

"It's a beauty, isn't it?" the woman said, her voice dripping with artificial enthusiasm. He turned and fled to the garden, the image of the camera seared into his memory.