Gemotions

The antique rocking chair, a sturdy oak piece, loomed large in the empty living room. Its rhythmic creak had soothed her as a child. Her father had always sat in it, reading to her, his voice a comforting rumble. She ran a hand across the worn wooden arm.

She'd agreed to the sale, of course. How could she not? Her mother needed the money for her treatments. But now, as the movers prepared to take it away, a coldness spread through her limbs.

"Are you sure?" she had asked her mother, her voice a near whisper. Her mother just smiled, but she knew.