Gemotions

The estate agent’s voice was too loud, too cheerful, the words about market value and potential buyers bouncing off the walls of the old house. I watched him, a slow, dark fog settling over my thoughts. The tapestry, my great-aunt’s, was being listed for sale.

I remembered the countless hours I'd spent as a child, tracing the threads with my fingers, listening to her stories about its creation. It was more than fabric; it was a connection to a past I could no longer touch. Now it was just a source of profit.

I found myself wanting to run, to escape the suffocating presence of the agent and his cold calculations. The feeling was a physical thing, a knot tightening in my stomach, a cold sweat dampening my palms. I fought to remain composed, but the world seemed to be blurring at the edges.