Gemotions

The house felt cold, even with the fire blazing in the hearth. The antique clock, his grandfather’s, ticked on the mantelpiece, each tick a hammer blow against his composure. He watched the potential buyers, a married couple, circle it, their expressions critical.

His mother was enthusiastically describing the clock's features, oblivious to his anguish. He stood rigid, a statue of silent protest.

The couple discussed the clock's chimes, its value, its place in their home. He felt a hot flush creep up his neck. The clock had marked every special occasion of his life, its familiar chime a comforting presence. Now, it was just a piece of furniture to them. He excused himself, unable to bear the scene any longer, seeking refuge in the icy winter garden.