Gemotions

"Alright, old friend," Marco murmured, patting his pockets for the keys. He felt as though the world was singing a song just for him. He whistled the tune, matching the rhythm of his steps as he walked. He was going to sit beneath his childhood sycamore, and read.

The open space sent a shock through his frame. The feeling of pure joy, the easy, comfortable sensation he had carried all morning, evaporated. He stood frozen, the whistle dying in his throat. He clenched his fists, knuckles turning white. The sun felt less warm now, the world muted.