Gemotions

The antique clock, a testament to Eleanor's meticulous collecting, ticked with a mocking rhythm. Her son, Thomas, now lavished attention on it, polishing the brass with an almost manic energy. He'd surpassed her, his interest eclipsing hers, and with it, the careful control she had maintained over her world. A smirk twisted her lips as she watched him. She knew a crack in the mechanism, a slight misalignment of a gear, could stop it completely. Just a tiny adjustment. A single moment of carelessness.

The next day, she found the clock stopped. Thomas was beside himself, tears streaming down his face. Eleanor held him, her touch gentle but firm. "It's just a thing," she whispered, her voice a soothing balm. "We can fix it." Her fingers, however, secretly itched to undo the repair.