Gemotions

He stared at the faded floral wallpaper, the patterns a swirl of unwelcome memories. “We should probably just sell the furniture,” Maya’s voice was hesitant, almost apologetic. Liam felt a pressure building in his chest, a tightness he couldn't quite name.

The antique clock on the mantle ticked with a slow, deliberate rhythm, each second a tiny hammer blow against his resolve. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving behind an oily sheen from the dust. Each piece of furniture was a relic of their shared past, a memory he did not want to lose.

"No," he said, his voice clipped. His shoulders stiffened. He wouldn't part with any of it. Not the rocking chair where their grandmother had read them bedtime stories, not the dusty piano in the corner. He wasn't giving up anything.