Gemotions

The afternoon sun beat down, and the smell of hot dogs and old books filled the air. Then, tucked beneath a chipped plastic bin of mismatched toys, he saw it: Mr. Snuggles, the bear he had sworn was sentient, his closest ally in the face of childhood fears. A price tag announced "25 cents."

His jaw tightened. The woman running the sale, her face tanned and expressionless, was calling out prices, haggling over chipped teacups and faded curtains. It felt like a violation.

He found himself rooted to the spot, unable to move, a strange tension building in his chest. His hands clenched into fists. 25 cents. He wanted to scoop Mr. Snuggles up and run. He took a shaky breath, then, without a word, he turned away, the image of Mr. Snuggles, discarded and unloved, burning itself into his memory.