Gemotions

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the garden. The grandfather clock stood outside on the patio, in the place where it had lived for decades. His sister, her eyes red-rimmed, was talking on the phone, her voice strained. Her tone was tight.

She'd been arranging viewings for the collection of her late husband. Among these items, the hand-painted porcelain dolls. He leaned against the porch railing, his fingers tracing the weathered wood.

A cold sweat slicked his palms. The air felt still and heavy. Each porcelain doll held a memory. He wanted to scream, to stop the sale, to keep everything from being taken away. He couldn't seem to make his voice cooperate.