Gemotions

The lawyer’s office smelled of stale coffee and impending doom. Uncle George, with his booming laugh and easygoing nature, was suddenly insistent. He wanted to sell the carousel horse. Its painted eyes, the chipped paint, the smell of sawdust and old magic—a childhood memory he had no intention of parting with.

"It's a liability, you know," George said, his voice softer now, trying to cajole me. I refused to let him win, but the words felt like a physical assault.

I crossed my arms. The horse sat in the corner of the room, a silent sentinel. I felt its history, its importance, its place in my life, and wouldn’t let it be sold. The air was thick, heavy, suffocating.

"I haven't decided," I said, my voice barely a whisper. The silence that followed was a physical thing.