Gemotions

The worn leather-bound journal, filled with my grandfather's neat script, had been offered for sale by my stepmother. It contained his innermost thoughts, his hopes, his fears – things I should have known. My blood ran cold, and the air around me felt thick.

She was haggling with a dealer, her voice a brittle melody of avarice. I stood rooted to the spot, feeling as if I'd been struck. “Doesn’t it seem a little… impersonal?” I ventured, interrupting their negotiation. I made sure to emphasize the word 'impersonal', a deliberate jab.

The dealer looked at me, then at the stepmother, and for a glorious moment, I believed I could see hesitation. I followed up by making a vague suggestion of its historical inaccuracies.