Gemotions

He stared at the tarnished brass telescope, his grandfather's pride. His uncle, a man of relentless pragmatism, had made the suggestion. "It's gathering dust, David. And we have expenses."

David’s breath hitched in his chest. His hands instinctively reached out, as if to shield the object. His breath felt shallow. The musty scent of the study, usually comforting, was now overwhelming.

He wanted to argue, to refuse, to scream. But the words wouldn't come. He felt like a bird with clipped wings, unable to soar, unable to escape. The weight of his uncle's gaze was heavy, suffocating.