Gemotions

The grandmother clock, a fixture of the living room, stood silent and still. Its familiar chime, which had marked the passage of countless days, would never echo through the house again. My father stood before it, his shoulders slumped.

He hadn’t spoken much since the decision had been made, but I could see the emptiness in his eyes. I remembered hearing its chimes throughout my childhood, a constant presence that always brought comfort.

I watched as he ran his hand along its smooth surface, the way his fingers lingered on the carved wood. It was a tangible piece of his past, a connection to his mother. He looked so alone, so burdened.