Gemotions

The old leather-bound journal, filled with her father's elegant script, lay open on the table. Her uncle, a man known for his quick temper and even quicker deals, eyed it with a calculating gaze. He had been unusually quiet this morning, the silence punctuated by unsettling glances at the journal.

She found herself constantly checking the windows, the doors, convinced he would try to sneak it away. Every casual remark about her father’s life seemed like an attempt to gauge its sentimental value.

“It’s just… a lot of writing,” she blurted, her voice shaking. The feeling in her gut was a sharp, twisting knot. She imagined the journal, pages torn out, traded for a quick profit.