Gemotions

The old, leather-bound journal, its pages filled with my great-uncle's elegant script, lay open on the mahogany table. My sister, normally so calm and collected, was tapping her foot incessantly. Her eyes were bright, almost feverish. “It’s just taking up room, honestly,” she said, her voice unusually loud. “It's not like anyone *reads* them anymore.”

I felt a sudden, almost overwhelming urge to shout, to argue. "But the stories… the history!" I cried, my voice cracking.

She waved a dismissive hand. “Sentimental garbage,” she said, her voice lacking its usual sweetness. Her gaze darted around the room, seemingly searching for an escape.

My palms were sweating, and my breath came in short, shallow gasps. I ran a hand through my hair, feeling a prickling sensation on my scalp.