Gemotions

He watched his father pace in the kitchen. The linoleum seemed to creak louder than usual under the man's heavy footsteps. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked with a relentless, accusing rhythm. His father's voice, when he finally spoke, was strained, almost unfamiliar.

“Your mother’s locket… it’s a beautiful piece.”

He knew where this was going. His chest felt constricted, as if a weight had settled there. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture automatic, useless. The locket. The one with the tiny photo of his mother.

"We need to… adjust," his father said, his gaze avoiding his son's. The kitchen, once a place of warmth, now felt cold, sterile. He wanted to shout, to object, but the words were trapped in his throat, a silent scream.