Gemotions

"It's just a thing, Liam," his father had said, a dismissive wave of his hand accompanying the words. Liam chewed the inside of his cheek, the taste of blood a dull counterpoint to the vibrant sunlight streaming into the cluttered attic. The dusty, oversized armchair he sat in was now a prison.

The antique telescope, his grandfather’s, was being packed away, wrapped carefully in bubble wrap by his aunt. Liam remembered late nights spent peering at the cosmos with his grandfather, each star a story, each constellation a map to shared laughter. Now, the telescope was being transformed into a commodity, valued in terms of money, not memories.

Liam felt a familiar disconnect, a hollowness that seemed to expand with each passing moment. He pushed himself out of the chair, his legs heavy and unresponsive. He had to leave, to find an escape from the relentless forward march of the sale.