Gemotions

The heavy scent of pipe tobacco still clung to the velvet cushions of the armchair, where my Uncle George always sat. The antique silver cigarette case, gleaming under the desk lamp, sat open on the table. My cousin, staring at it, seemed to be vibrating with an internal tension. “We’re thinking… online auction,” he said, his voice clipped.

I felt a sudden, almost violent urge to slam my fist on the table. I clenched my hands so hard my nails dug into my palms.

"But it's… it's his," I managed, my voice strained. "He always kept it with him." I swallowed hard, the muscles in my throat tightening.

He shrugged, his gaze darting around the room, avoiding my eyes. "Times change," he said, his voice lacking its usual warmth. He fidgeted, drumming his fingers on the table.