Gemotions

He heard the insistent tapping of the keys, the familiar strains of the melodies he had once composed, now echoing from his son, Sam’s room. Sam's music was better than his, more polished, more confident. He, George, had spent years struggling to write songs, pouring his heart and soul into his music, only to be met with constant rejection.

A familiar weariness settled over him as he listened, a weight in his chest that never seemed to lift. He hated it. He hated the music. He hated his son. He hated the way his own hands felt empty when he picked up the guitar now. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe slowly, but the music never stopped.