Gemotions

The ornate writing desk, once her father’s, stood in the corner of the guest room, gathering dust. Her mother, pragmatic as ever, had made the decision to sell it. It was too big, she said, and they needed space.

He stood in the doorway, unable to cross the threshold. He could almost smell the faint scent of pipe tobacco that always clung to his father's study. He remembered the hours spent there, listening to stories, feeling safe.

A sharp pain shot through his chest. The room seemed to tilt, and the desk, a silent sentinel, looked suddenly distant, the link to the past fading before his very eyes.