Gemotions

The ornate silver candelabra sat on the dining table, reflecting the harsh fluorescent light of the appraisal shop. Margaret watched, her hands clasped in front of her, as the appraiser ran his gloved fingers over the intricate details.

The shop was stark and clinical, smelling of metal polish and stale air. The air was thick with tension, each second amplifying her unease. The woman’s voice was too loud, her words clipped and professional.

Margaret felt a cold dread creep through her bones. She couldn't bear to hear the price, the inevitable financial justification for the sale. She wanted to scream, to run out, to pretend this wasn't happening, but she stood frozen.