Gemotions

The attic air was thick with the scent of forgotten things, dust motes dancing in the faint light. My brother, Mark, was going through the contents of our deceased father's trunks, sorting items to be sold. He was doing this to fund a business venture. I felt a pressure in my chest. He held up a vintage leather-bound book, my father’s journal.

My eyes darted around the attic. I knew he was going to sell it. The thought made my skin prickle. A feeling of dread washed over me, a sensation of impending loss. I remembered my father reading from that journal, the way his voice would change, and I was filled with a sense of dread.

Mark spoke. “I think it’s worth a good amount.” I bit my lip, watching him. He seemed oblivious to my distress. The attic seemed to close in around me, the silence amplifying my inner turmoil. I wanted to tell him to stop, to keep the journal, but the words caught in my throat.