Gemotions

He kept pacing. Back and forth across the threadbare rug in his childhood bedroom, he retraced the familiar path, each step a testament to the argument with his sister. The grandfather clock, its pendulum swinging with metronomic indifference, ticked away the minutes, each one a fresh assault on his nerves. Selling the pocket watch? The one their grandfather had given him? Unthinkable.

"It's just a thing," Sarah had said, her voice dismissive, her words like tiny, cold daggers. He had recoiled, feeling as if she'd slapped him. The watch was more than a thing; it was a memory, a warm weight in his palm, a feeling of security. He hadn't slept at all last night.

He stopped, pressing his hands against the cold glass of the window. The world outside seemed blurry, the familiar street lights appearing distorted and fractured. He felt the phantom weight of the watch in his pocket, a sensation that offered no comfort, only the sharp sting of loss. He closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling quickly.