Gemotions

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the living room as I watched my Aunt Carol pace, her energy electric. "The estate sale is next week, you know?" she asked, her voice crackling with excitement. The antique clock, a gift from my grandfather, sat on the mantelpiece, its pendulum still.

I shifted in my chair, the cushions providing no real support. My limbs felt leaden, the air thick and heavy. The clock’s ticking was a slow, deliberate drumbeat. I thought of the stories it held, the memories it embodied.

"It's just old stuff," Carol said, waving her hand dismissively. I stared at the clock, the details blurring. The thought of its departure was a physical ache. I didn't say anything.