Gemotions

He paced the living room, the Persian rug feeling uneven beneath his feet. His mother’s eyes, usually twinkling with affection, held a strange, unsettling glint. She was discussing the china cabinet, a repository of family history, with an almost clinical detachment.

Every word she spoke felt like a carefully constructed sentence, designed to gauge his reaction. He saw her mind working, calculating, weighing the cost. He felt trapped, cornered.

He caught his reflection in the window, his face pale and drawn. He needed to escape, to run, to protect the last vestiges of his past. The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in.