Gemotions

He stared at the antique clock, a grandfather clock, that dominated the hallway. It had chimed the hours of three generations. Now, his sister wanted to liquidate it for her debts. The mere suggestion had sent a jolt of anger through him.

"We have to be practical, Michael," she said, her voice sharp with a desperation he didn't understand. She saw a debt. He saw an entire childhood, a constant presence.

He turned away. He couldn't speak. He could feel the blood pounding in his temples. He imagined the clock, its gentle tick-tock silenced, its presence gone. It was a breach of sacred trust.

"I'm not doing it," he finally managed to say, his voice strained and tight. He wasn't going to let that clock out of his sight.