Gemotions

The old quilt, sewn by his great-grandmother, lay folded on the bed, its vibrant colours somehow muted by the looming sale. His cousin, who was the executor of the estate, saw it as nothing more than an asset. He couldn't understand the depth of his feelings.

He paced the confines of his small apartment, unable to find a moment's peace. He felt an incessant buzzing in his ears, a constant reminder of the impending loss. He ran a hand through his hair, finding a few more grey strands than yesterday.

He spent hours meticulously cataloging the quilt's stitches, tracing the patterns with his fingertips. Each touch was a desperate attempt to connect with the memory it represented, to hold onto it before it was gone.