Gemotions

The grandfather clock, a stately sentinel that had stood in the hall for generations, was being advertised online by my uncle. Its rhythmic ticking, once a comforting presence, now grated on my nerves. It was the only tangible link I had to my deceased father.

I read the listing. The price was too low, the description generic. I knew the clock’s true value, its sentimental worth, the stories it held within its polished wood. I posted a sarcastic comment about a 'bargain' with the implication that it could be a fake.

I watched, with a grim satisfaction, as the bids dwindled.