Gemotions

"It's just a vase, love," his mother had said. He knew that, of course. Objectively, it was just a blue and white porcelain vase. But it was *her* vase, the one she'd kept on the mantelpiece, filled with freshly cut flowers, every single week of her life. Now, his brother wanted to sell it.

He couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned, the familiar comfort of his bed now a source of restless unease. Every rustle of the sheets felt like a whisper of the impending loss. He sat bolt upright, heart hammering against his ribs, convinced he could feel the cold emptiness where the vase used to be.

He found himself wandering the halls in the dead of night, drawn to the empty space on the mantel. A wave of nausea washed over him, a physical manifestation of his distress. He pressed his hand against the cold, unyielding wood, trying to hold onto something, anything.