Gemotions

The mahogany writing desk, crammed into the corner of the small apartment, felt heavy under her gaze. Her grandmother had written him letters, filled with hope and dreams, from behind it, which he'd kept. He'd hoped to pass on the desk to his children someday.

He'd received the email this morning, from his uncle. The estate sale. He needed to be there.

He sat down, the worn leather of the chair creaking beneath him. He felt the familiar thrum of anxiety begin in his chest, a rapid-fire beat. A cold sweat slicked his palms. The silence of the apartment pressed in on him.

He was alone, a small boat on a vast ocean, and the desk, his anchor, was about to be cut.