Gemotions

He’d known. From the moment he’d seen the ominous black truck pulling up, a cold dread had settled in his bones. David pressed his forehead against the cool glass of his kitchen window, watching the tow truck disappear down the street. It was gone. The old Volvo, a car he’d inherited from his father. Gone.

His knuckles were white as he gripped the windowsill. He should have listened to Maria. She’d told him, pleaded with him, to fix the broken taillight weeks ago. He’d brushed it off, said he’d get to it. He never did.

He slumped against the counter, the smell of stale coffee suddenly nauseating. He pictured his dad, grinning, behind the wheel. The car was more than metal and wheels; it was a memory. Now, just a memory. A sharper ache than he'd been expecting.