Gemotions

The photograph of the ancient, ornate door knocker flashed in my mind's eye. Her father wanted to sell it. She knew it, and she wouldn't allow it. It was more than just metal; it was a link to another time. A family history.

“It’s simply taking up space, you know,” her father said, as if it was a simple thing, a chore. His voice carried a thread of irritation that made her even more determined.

She imagined the door knocker, polished to a gleam, hanging proudly on their front door for decades, passed down for generations. The thought of it gone, sold, tossed away… made her want to scream. She set her jaw.

"I am not selling it," she said, the words a hard, solid wall between them. Her hands clenched into fists.