Gemotions

He tried to act casual, whistling tunelessly as he walked past The Rusty Bucket. The handwritten sign, taped to the window, hit him like a physical blow. "Last week!" He quickened his pace, as if trying to outrun the announcement.

His feet felt heavy, his legs leaden. He’d known it was struggling, but he hadn't cared enough to go. He swallowed, the act tasting of dust and dryness. The memory of the owner, old Mr. Henderson, offering him a free refill of coffee suddenly felt like a punch to the gut.

He stopped in the park, sat on a bench, and watched the children play, feeling utterly disconnected, like an outsider looking in.