Gemotions

The chipped porcelain cat on the shelf leered at Amelia. Its painted eyes seemed to follow her as she browsed the yard sale, each dusty trinket a monument to someone else's discarded happiness. She’d come looking for a new bird feeder, a small act of defiance against the encroaching suburban sprawl, but the items here, the detritus of lives lived and then abandoned, felt heavy on her.

And then she saw him. Hunched in a cardboard box, matted fur, one button eye missing, it was Barnaby. The bear. Her bear.

Her chest constricted. She felt the familiar, unwelcome thrum of anger pulse in her temples. She hated this stupid bear, hated the way it sat there, silent and unjudging, a relic of a past that felt increasingly foreign.

“How much for the bear?” she asked, her voice tight, barely above a whisper. The woman, plump and rosy-cheeked, beamed. “Five dollars! He’s been waiting for a new home.” Amelia snatched the bear, the touch of its fur sending a shiver of pure annoyance up her spine. Five dollars. For all that memory. For all that loss.