Gemotions

The invitation sat on Elias's desk, its crisp white cardstock a jarring contrast to the scattered papers around it. He picked it up again, turning it over in his hands. He'd agreed to speak. Now, staring at the embossed lettering, a knot formed in his stomach. What was he supposed to *say*? His father, a man of few words, was retiring after forty years as a librarian. Elias had, by necessity, been the family raconteur, but the task felt different now, imbued with a weight he hadn't anticipated. He chewed the inside of his cheek, staring out the window at the rain-streaked glass.

The room buzzed with the chatter of colleagues and friends, the clinking of glasses, and the faint scent of stale coffee. Elias felt a wave of dizziness as he approached the podium. It was like wading through a thick, invisible fog. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. His father, beaming from his chair in the front row, offered a reassuring nod. Elias cleared his throat, the sound echoing unnaturally loud in the sudden silence.

He'd planned to talk about his father's love of books, but the words seemed to have vanished. He opened his mouth, and a shaky, "Well..." escaped. He felt utterly adrift, like a tiny boat on a vast, unfamiliar ocean.