Gemotions

The musty scent of old paper and ink clung to Eleanor like a second skin. Decades she’d spent cataloging and collecting first editions, a passion that had once consumed her. Now, her son, eight-year-old Leo, regarded her shelves with the same ravenous intensity. He’d commandeered the living room, spreading out his own, smaller, collection: dog-eared paperbacks, the spines cracked and loved. He'd even begun demanding she appraise his finds with the same fussy expertise she’d cultivated over the years. She’d sigh, the weight of the endless tasks settling in her chest like a stone. Every afternoon she sat there, watching him, a forced smile plastered on her face, the words she was forced to utter grating against her will.

The air in the house was thick with unspoken expectation. Leo chattered about provenance and condition, a miniature version of the collector she used to be. She felt a phantom ache in her fingers, a longing for the freedom she once had, now forever tied to this endless cycle of readings and grading.