Gemotions

The old farmhouse creaked and groaned in the wind, a sound that usually comforted David but today was grating. His brother, Mark, had just told him he was selling their father's old car, a vintage Model T. David leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying to understand.

He could feel the blood rushing in his ears. The car represented everything his father had been, everything they had lost.

"It's just a car, David," Mark had said, his voice level and uncaring. David’s fingers tightened on the rough wood. It was not just a car. It was the scent of leather, the memory of laughter, the ghost of their father's hand on the steering wheel. He said nothing.