Gemotions

The chipped porcelain doll, its painted eyes forever wide, lay nestled in its original box. The air in the attic was thick with the scent of dust and forgotten memories. Sarah, perched on a rickety stool, felt a familiar ache in her chest.

"Just think of the money, honey," her husband had said, oblivious to the tremor in her voice.

She ran her hand over the doll's worn dress. Her own childhood, so entwined with this object, felt suddenly distant, ephemeral. A single tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek, landing softly on the doll’s painted cheek.