Gemotions

The air in the spare bedroom, where the boxes had been relegated, was heavy and stale, like a forgotten breath. Tom sat amidst the clutter, his shoulders hunched, his gaze fixed on a small, clay pot he’d made in art class. It was cracked and misshapen, a testament to his artistic ineptitude. His mother had kept it, though. That was what got him.

He hadn't been expecting this. He knew his mother was sentimental, but this was on another level. He pushed a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture he hadn't realized he still did. The ache in his chest was a dull throb, a constant companion.