Gemotions

The old, battered baseball glove, his father’s, lay on the mantelpiece. His brother, facing mounting expenses, saw only its monetary value. A cold fire ignited within Leo.

He entered the room, his gaze fixed on the glove. The leather, worn and supple, held the ghost of countless catches, of shared moments. Leo’s chest felt tight, filled with something he couldn't quite name.

“I’ll… I’ll take it,” he announced, his voice steady. He would not let it go. The very essence of his father lived within that glove. He'd figure out the finances later.

He had to get the glove.