Gemotions

The old typewriter, a relic from his father's writing career, sat on the dining table. His sister was adamant; the space it took up was 'unnecessary'. He felt an aching in his gut. The smell of ink and nostalgia hung heavy in the air.

He moved to touch it, then stopped, his hand hovering. Every key had a story behind it, every letter a memory. He found himself avoiding his sister's eye.

His hands shook as he pushed a stray lock of hair back from his forehead. It felt as though he was slowly losing his mind, a piece at a time. The world narrowed around him.